


Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

by Ramzes



Series: Targaryens: Times of Glory [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Black and red. Life threads so tangled and knotted that they cannot be torn asunder for a lifetime, for over a century. A war as terrible as the Conquest of Dorne itself. So many will die, and rivers of blood will flow up to the stars and beyond. And it will all start with the blood of dragons spilt on a field that will be called Redgrass. Written before TWoIaF came out, so now officially AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maekar

"Are you trying to will the river to dry up?" Prince Baelor inquired, all curiosity. The taunting note in his voice would not go well with his brother, he knew, but it would do lots of good to their battle commanders surrounding them, let alone the thousands of knights and men at-arms who stared at the said river in dismay, helpless and cursing the Seven for turning the weather against them.

Maekar did not look aside from the grey, rain-swollen hell, ironically named the Small River. The water lever was much higher than normal, they could say that even never having been there. The Small River ran cold and dry, carrying thorn trees and dead animals. Maekar's stallion whinnied and pawed, obviously liking the situation no better than his master. He patted him absent-mindedly. "Come on, Pride," he said. "It's all right."

The horse obviously didn't think so, though. In fact, neither did Maekar. The only ones who seemed to do were Daemon's sentries on the other bank. They were left to guard the ford and obviously thought the river would do the job for them. It might very well would.

"Well?" Baelor asked again. "Are you?"

He looked as if he actually expected an answer to his ridiculous question. Maekar sighed and decided to play along. "Is it working?" he said. Baelor would have much to answer for when it was all over. Right now, Maekar wasn't so sure it would end the way they wanted. The rain might put an end to their plan to divide their forces and then Daemon would win. Maekar's lips curled in disgust _. The idiot! What exactly is he planning to do with the things he can't kill with his shiny sword? If there weren't so many things at the stake, I'd love to see him making a mull of it._ But there were this many things at the stake. The idea of Daemon sitting the Iron Throne in Maekar's father's stead was ludicrous, yet it might very well turn into reality. The Seven had just made their latest cruel jape with them, barring their advance. He stared at the river for a moment longer and caught himself actually willing it to dry up. Angry with Baelor for planting this queer suggestion into his head in the first place, he turned to the others – his brother, Bloodraven, the aging Grey Lion of Lannister whose hair was still more golden than grey, the bold Lord Arryn and the Knight of Ninestars whose advice in all things to do with strategy Maekar would prefer to any of the great lords', Ser Gwayne Corbray of the Kingsguard, composed as ever, and Ser Carral Mansel who had taken Fireball's place as master-at-arms and insisted that his place was there.

"How deep do you think it is?" Maekar asked and made Pride follow Baelor's just as recalcitrant horse to the edge of the river. Soon, all battle commanders were there, trying to guess the answer to this. No one could. They only knew it was deeper than it should be. But the ford they were hoping to find, it must still be there. Daemon's men were there to guard it, weren't they?

Maekar looked at the silent men at-arms, at the tightened faces of their commanders, at his brother's composed expression. They were all aware of the reality of the istuation, of course, and they were waiting for him to voice it.

He did. "Well," he said. He could not lift their spirits by joking with the danger as Baelor had and he didn't even try. Instead, he stated calmly, "It seems we must cross this river. There is only one way to find out how deep it is."

No one was surprised and no one was elated when he went on, "I find it fair to be the first one to test it. Are you coming, my lords?"

Everyone nodded grimly. "Good," Maekar said and dismounted. While the others stared, he untied his saddle bag and took out a small bag from the inside. This, he handed to Baelor who only stared in surprise. "My maps and some books on strategy," Maekar explained. "I'd rather not have them get wet. I'll take them back later," he added and his brother laughed all of a sudden.

"There is still hope for you, Maekar Targaryen," he said. "I'll keep them dry for you."

"You'd better," Maekar warned. "Good luck to you."

Baelor nodded, suddenly serious. "And you, too. See you soon!"

Ser Carral looked nervous, obviously not relishing the idea of the others plunging into the Seven knew how deep waters while he stayed behind. Still, it had been decided that he'd join Baelor in his ride to Dorne. It had to be done in secret, so the men who'd accompany the Crown Prince were the best swordsmen, the ones the King trusted above all others. So when Ser Carral approached him, Maekar only shook his head before hearing a word. "No, Ser, you cannot accompany me," he said and added in lower voice, "Take care of Baelor and don't let him place himself in greater danger than need be."

The old man nodded miserably, the perspective of traveling around the roiling kingdom and possibly dying defending Baelor obviously scaring him less than leaving Maekar cross the flooded river on his own. He had served as the master-at-arms' second long enough to actually form attachment to his young charges.

Maekar got on Pride again and drawing his sword, spurred the stallion forward into the water, cursing at the first splash of icy water on his legs. Lord Arryn was the first one to follow. Bloodravenon charged into the river next and then no men dared balk. Shivering, cursing, coaxing the nervous horses, and complaining of the cold, fighting to not let the water sweep them away, they still advanced. With their hearts in their mouths, Baelor and his small party watched as the first men reached a brighter place into the middle of churning waters and shouted in elation. Fortunately, the ford _was_ still there, as flooded as it was, and by the time the last ones reached the opposite shore, the others had already dealt with the vastly outnumbered guards.

Baelor exhaled with relief and turned to the twelve men of his party. "Come on," he said. "We're leaving."


	2. Daemon

The fat septon's droning had been lasting for so long that Daemon could hardly keep his eyes open. To achieve it, he deliberately looked from the statue of the Father to the oak carving of the Maiden inlaid with gold, from the Warrior to the Stranger and then back. Couldn't the man speed it up or simply shut up?

It seemed he couldn't. Daemon almost regretted that he had agreed to attend the naming of the lord's infant grandson but well, he could have not exactly not attended. King or not, he was a guest in Lord Costayne's castle. That was what one did.

Still, he could not remember ever having witnessed such a long ceremony, even at King's Landing. Even the High Septon had known to keep it short, although now Daemon did not doubt that had he been given a chance, he would have prolonged it as much as the fat fool here was doing now. Grudgingly, Daemon admitted to himself that Daeron had done something right – he had obviously taught the Faith to keep it bearable.

Through the anointing with the seven oils the little boy woke up and gave a mighty cry. Alas, that did not daunt the Septon's resolve to bore everyone to tears. Daemon looked at the wooden carving of the Warrior, the only god he truly revered. He would never admit it to anyone but there was a Dornish way he quite liked – some of Myriah Martell's companions said their prayers to the Warrior in front of a sword driven in a tree. Short and efficient. He silently prayed that he won, that he'd be able to fix the injustices that Daeron had done him.

Finally, it was over. One by one, the guests assembled in a column, waiting for their turn to grant gifts to the newborn. The King was first, of course. The small golden dragon with jewels for eyes and claws elicited a small cry of wonder by anyone that soon turned to alarm when Daemon suddenly dropped it mere moments before leaving it next to the boy. A simple mishap… or a sinister omen? Daemon heard the murmur rushing through the crowd and knew which explanation seemed more likely to them. If this was the fate of the gifts the King wanted to bestow upon someone… Angry and disappointed, Daemon tried to keep it in. If they were so sure that the dropping of an item was such an ill omen, what did it say for their true faith in their destiny? Daemon knew without the shadow of a doubt that he was meant to win. He thought they knew it, too.

Once the ceremony was over, everyone was only too happy to leave the closed sept cloyed with oils, perfumes, and sweat. Daemon needed a good sleep, so that in the morning he could start making his plans with a clear head. The flooded river would not keep Baelor at bay forever, this much was clear. Still, they had a week or more before the enemies came the other way.

The enemies… Daemon shook his head. How had it come that Baelor had become an enemy? He had been a childhood friend of Daemon's. They had gotten along pretty well, for most part. He respected Baelor and wished that there was another way for it to end. Alas, there wasn't. Still, he had been secretly relieved for the flooded river not only because it suited their purpose in having time for gathering more of their people but because it prolonged the day when he'd wield Blackfyre against those who had been his friends once – Baelor, Ser Carral, the Knight of Ninestars. For Maekar and Bloodraven, he had no qualms.

He was headed for his chambers, followed by an array of drunken lords who were being insistent on discussing their battle tactics – right now! Daemon scrambled for any excuse for sending them away politely and came with none. And then, he was no longer listening, for Lord Strickland strode through the courtyard toward them. To their host's anger and Daemon's secret envy, he had flat out refused to "lose his time with septons", so instead of attending the boring event Daemon had been forced to endure, he had ridden off to check how things with Baelor's army were going. He looked as if he knew it now – and disliked it profoundly.

"Battle tactics," he said grimly. "A good topic right now. We'll need them sooner than we expected, for we have no time to lose. The flooded river that everyone was so sure could not be crossed? Well, I guess we all forgot to tell Maekar it was impassable."

At that, a stunned silence followed. It was soon broken by exclamations that made Daemon shake his head in fury. Unlike the others, he did not doubt Lord Strickland… and he did not doubt Maekar either. As unpleasant as the younger man was, he was also quite capable and in Daemon's opinion, he had inherited the worst traits of both his parents. He had Myriah's way of seeing the impossible as 'maybe risky' and Daeron's sense of moral certainty. He was just the man who would enter the bloody river without knowing whether he'd ever go out because it was _the right thing to do_. Daemon tried to collect his thoughts.

"So, it is Maekar," he said. "He would just do it, right. But where is Baelor? Don't tell me that he drowned."

"I don't know," Lord Strickland said. "Personally, I doubt we're in so much luck."

Daemon grimaced and then reminded himself that the other man was right. Baelor's death would be to their greatest advantage. He could hardly blame his men for willing it. And really, did he believe that Baelor could survive after the Black Dragon won? He was too dangerous to be left alive. Daemon regretted it but this was the way of life. The way of victory. The way of kings.

"I got into the woods before they came into view." Lord Strickland said. "They did not see me and passed right by. It was Prince Maekar. I recognized him straight away."

"He is no prince," Bittersteel cut in sharply. Lord Strickland, however, was not intimidated.

"I saw his banner, saw his face. It was Maekar, Your Grace, I'd stake my life on it. But Baelor was nowhere to be seen. They did not look like grieving men, though, so I guess whatever happened to him, the wet death was not it."

Among the clamouring of the others, Daemon frowned. Baelor had gotten away before the battle? Why? A quarrel with Maekar? No way. Those two were constantly fighting but they did have each other's back when needed and now, it was needed more than ever. Besides, if such were the case, Baelor should have been the one to lead the army and Maekar the one to run away with his tail between his legs. It made no sense.

They had a plan of some sort and Daemon had no idea what it was. He'd think about it later. Now, he needed to think about his own plans, his own preparations… and he had to start them with rousing the drunken ones among his commanders. He sighed and gave orders for the servants in the kitchen to start working and cold water to be brought.


	3. Brynden

"Bloody hell," someone murmured.

"Already there," someone else said cynically and sent an arrow ahead.

 _Maybe next time, we should start shooting fire arrows,_ Brynden thought and strained to see what lay ahead. It was almost sunset and the light didn't hurt his eyes so much.

 _We're too far ahead_ , he now realized. For a moment, a sense of cold foreboding overcame him but he chased it away. No doubt Maekar had sent patrols to try and reach them, consolidate their efforts. The thing was, in this broken ground it was too easy to lose one's sense of distance. The patrols had no doubt tried and failed to get in touch. The darker it got, the more unlikely it became that they would succeed.

 _Maybe Maekar has better luck than I do_ , Brynden thought. Somehow, they had gotten themselves surrounded on three sides. Brynden did not have the time to investigate whose wretched fool's fault it was. And it didn't matter anyway. _He_ was the wretched fool who had let it happen. His Raven's Teeth trusted him and only him, followed him everywhere without asking questions and he had brought them into _the heart of the bloody hell_. He shot an arrow and fell someone far ahead. But it couldn't go on forever. For now, they held their own but what would happen when the sun fully set, when darkness made them miss their target? He shot again and checked Dark Sister on his hip. _They are not taking me alive_ , he thought without too much sentiment. And it wasn't as if he'd be mourned too much – the sorcerer, the marked one, the one with eyes no human should have. His mother was long dead. Maybe Shiera would weep for him for a while before she took another to her bed. He liked to think that she would. He was delusional, of course.

They were retreating little by little. Brynden strained to see who the enemy commander was but he could not see him anywhere. It was not Fireball, though – had Brynden been in the enemy's position, he would have had the Raven's Teeth already massacred, no matter the casualties. The Raven's Teeth were just too strong an enemy to be given a chance to retreat and escape. And Fireball was the one who had _taught_ Brynden.

He was ready to die today if he must, yet he knew it wouldn't happen. The day was coming – the day of the final battle. The day Daemon Blackfyre would die. The day Brynden and Aegor would fight each other to the bitter end. Brynden knew it, felt it in the marrow of his bones. Even the _crow_ felt it.

Not that it was a great comfort right now. He shot again and missed. Cursed. Around him, his archers started muttering as they, too, started missing. The patrols he had sent ahead returned with the news that the charge was led by Lord Sunderland… and that Fireball was dead, shot in front of a tavern this very evening.

"Good," Brynden said. For a moment, he wondered whether it was possible that they had peace now when Fireball was dead. Aegor's influence over Daemon was considerable but Fireball's death had deprived him of an ally. And in the past, Daemon had been quite fond of Daeron, although he had always considered himself his better because of his martial prowess. Brynden shook his head. What, was he turning into Baelor the Blessed now? They were in the eve of a bloody _battle_. With everyone gathering to help one side or the other. Daemon couldn't turn back, even if he wanted to. And Brynden had one imperative: getting as many of his men alive as he could, so they could enter the fight tomorrow with renewed energy.

"We're retreating," he said. "Hurry up!"

They headed for the only direction that was free. They didn't know where it led, didn't know whether the traitors wouldn't be waiting for them – but they were coming upon them from the three other sides, so they had no other choice. Under the protective shooting of three of his best archers, everyone started to leave. Brynden and Ser Hernaut the Fast waited.

"Come on, Giar," Brynden said when the second archer showed no intention of leaving his place in the tree. There was no time. He could say that there was someone watching them, although he couldn't see them.

"Come on," the Raven's Teeth started.

The young man shook his head. There was blood pouring down his leg from the skirmish earlier this day. An arrow in his chest stuck out ominously. Brynden saw that he needed a maester, urgently. Besides losing too much blood from the leg wound, he would surely die the moment they pulled the arrow out if there wasn't someone who knew how to heal nearby.

"You go," Giar said. The blood glistened black on the light of the rising moon. "I'll stay."

The moon was now giving him a better view. He aimed and shot. Brynden realized that to him, they no longer existed.

"Come on," he said.

As they were retreating under the protective whizzing of the arrows, Brynden tried to remember where Giar had come from. He couldn't come up with anything. Probably, he had never thought to ask, never taken any interest. And now, he might never know, for Giar was a dead man for sure. He stared right ahead and cursed Aegor and Daemon – definitely not under his breath.

They had to die for making the Seven Kingdoms bleed. That was the only way to end this war. The only road to peace.

* * *

Far away in the Red Keep, Shiera Seastar closed her eyes and the image in her mirror blurred. She pinched her forehead and thought of making a potion to help her headache. Her restless fingers were itching for yet another task and started working with familiar mastery, yet when she was done and brought the potion to her lips, she frowned at the taste and realized that it was not for drinking. It was the concoction she gave Brynden every night to soothe his sensitive skin that always caught some sun despite his cloak and hood.

She bit her lip. How dejected he had looked in the mirror. How tired. The sun had hurt his skin already. And he had been _so close to death_. If she knew how, she would make a death spell to Daemon, so it would be over – the threat for Daeron, the threat for the kingdom, the threat for Brynden whom she kept seeing falling down on the battlefield, his face swimming in blood. At this moment, she always cried out and woke up trembling, so she never saw whether he _died_.

No. She would not think this way. He wouldn't want her to. Instead, she focused on the good moments between the two of them, of the lean arms holding her, the red eyes softening for her alone.

"Just a few weeks, a month at most, my love," she whispered. "An eternity, indeed, yet it is so short, almost nothing."

And then, she realized what she had said. Tears came to her eyes and she let them fall. "Oh yes, Brynden Rivers, I do love you. You'll never have cause to doubt it again."


	4. Baelor

_Could it have been avoided?_

This was the question that did not leave his mind while they marched through the slopes of the Red Mountains, through the treacherous Dornish Marshes, and all the way through the Reach. Could have they done something differently, made amends, prevented this from happening?

He really should stop asking himself that. There was no use of that now. Still, while he was riding ahead of his people, he had much time for thinking at it always came back to that.

Had they treated Daemon badly? Perhaps. He was a great warrior and a good man, there was no doubt about that. Still, it was not their fault that he was a bastard. It was just the way of things. They could not have changed the world for him and aside from some petty quarrels when they were children, Baelor really couldn't recount anything untowardly on their side against Daemon. They had not persecuted him. They had not deprived him of Blackfyre – which now Baelor considered a mistake. They should have taken the sword away by the reasoning that it was not King Aegon's personal property to bestow upon whomever he desired. But Daemon hadn't been their enemy then, so they had had no pressing reason to deprive him of anything. Ironically, when he gave them a reason, it was already too late. The King Who Bore the Sword! It would have made a fine jest if it hadn't turned into a tragedy. Daemon would have probably used said sword to cut off the heads of everyone he disagreed with and regret it later, for whatever his faults, cruelty was not one of them.

Except for things he didn't understand, like the fact that learning was as valid a way of advancing a kingdom as warfare and sometimes even better. Like his disdain for weakness – and just about anyone who was not an accomplished warrior was weak in his eyes. To him, strength was in martial prowess alone. He was infatuated with the stories of the Young Dragon, never wanting to hear about all those who died for the sole purpose of sating the ambition of a boy who still had much growing to do and simply didn't know better. _But I am not being fair to him_ , Baelor reminded himself. After all, Daemon had been influenced by his mother, Princess Daena who worshipped her eldest brother while Baelor's own mother, Myriah Martell, spoke of the Young Dragon with disdain she rarely bothered to disguise, even in King Aegon's presence. She had lived through the Conquest of Dorne and growing up, Baelor had occasionally heard tales from both her and her attendants about the horrors they had experienced, half of Sunspear razed to the ground, the burned Tower of the Sun, all men who died and the women who drowned the babes fathered on them by the Seven Kingdom's soldiers by force. Even the Dragonknight had once made a slip of the tongue, saying that his best period in Dorne had been while he was captive, because he wasn't forced to watch the horrors going on and even take part. Daemon had been raised by a woman who held the man responsible for the carnage as a hero. Baelor still remembered her lectures on the subject of how the only thing that mattered was being strong enough to defeat your enemies on the battlefield. He supposed he didn't wonder why Daemon detested Baelor's father… He had simply never been taught that there were different kinds of strength.

And now even more people would die because of that.

"Your Grace!"

Baelor startled and Ser Carral glowered at him. "Has the sun gotten into you?" he snapped. "You were nodding off, it seemed. In your saddle."

Baelor looked aside. It would be better to be perceived as one who was submitting to the inconveniences everyone else in their army was experiencing than admitting that he was thinking of days long gone and wondering what might have turned out differently. It would be taken as a sign of weakness – the same weakness his father was accused of. And that would not be true. While he still believed in leniency, Baelor also believed that there was a line, a fine one but irreversible and beyond it, there was no going back. It had gone too far. _No quarter given or taken_ , Maekar had told their father the morning they left. To everyone else, it had sounded like a declaration, yet Baelor had recognized it for what it was: his brother was asking for orders, a confirmation. The King had nodded silently.

Once, peace and leniency might have been possible. Now, it was no longer so. It was too late.

He raised his hand. "We'll make camp when we reach Long Valley tonight," he said, to the initial dismay of the men around him. Still, no one muttered for long. Whatever else could be said about stormlords and Dornishmen, they were not slow to learn – they were learning to take his word as a prediction of a maester. He heard it often when, unable to rest, he roamed around the campfires in simple brown cloak, unrecognizable from any other man-at-arms, to Ser Carral's dismay, and listened to the men's conversations. Of course they would win, they told each other. After all, the Prince had announced that they were to leave the very next day after he had arrived to take their lead and by the Seven, they had – he had somehow managed to organize their march and lines of supplies in the single night he had, although Blackfyre had changed the course of _his_ march all of a sudden, ruining all of their preparations. He had said that they'd reach the Westerlands in ten days and everybody could show the blisters and saddlesores they had gotten and some of their tunics probably could never get scrubbed clean of all the mud they had had the misfortune of acquiring on their persons because of the torrential rains – but they had reached there on the tenth day. The Prince himself had been seen soaking his dried meat on the rain – for they could not carry much food, with the speed Baelor was enforcing – and cursing how stringy it was. But he had brought them here. So if he said they'd reach Long Valley before midnight, then they would – even if they ended up too weary to build a proper camp.

The day was rolling, long and hot. Each intake of breath was like inhaling fire, it was hard not to nod off and ever so often, Baelor startled and asked himself the same question.

_Could it have been avoided?_

Probably not, given Daemon's temper, his upbringing and the circumstances. Taught to disdain Dorne and everything Dornish, Daemon disliked having to bow to the Dornish Queen of Westeros, having to see so many Dornish customs make their way in Westeros. And while he and Baelor had been friends once, with age, the difference in their status became more obvious. While Daemon was never disrespected, Baelor received more honours, more responsibilities. At his sixteenth nameday, he was allowed to attend the Small Council and represent his father on different occasions, with the dragon banner carried before him and everyone paying respect. Baelor didn't think Daemon would have lasted more than two sessions of the Council – the Seven knew that sometimes _he_ wanted to bolt out and leave them to their boring subjects and petty quarrels – but the thing was, the fact that he wasn't invited to attend ate at him. Worse yet was the fact that at court, Daemon was placed not only behind Baelor but behind Aerys and Rhaegel, both of whom he despised, and Maekar who was so much younger. For a few years before the rebellion, Baelor thought that the only one of the royals Daemon didn't hold in disdain was Aelinor. And while the ridge between Daemon, on one side, and Baelor and his brothers, on another was widening, Aegor had kept whispering his poison in Daemon's ear and with each day, Daemon had become more willing to listen.

Daenerys' betrothal had been the last drop. Even if she had been given to him, he would have risen in rebellion over another matter, just later.

When they reached Long Valley under the starlight, everyone was so weary that some murmured they lacked the energy to dismount. Baelor could hardly keep his eyes open but he summoned Ser Carral to a conversation.

"I want you to leave before sunrise," he said while they were building a fire. "I want you to find Maekar and inform him about our position and our plans."

Ser Carral nodded curtly. "Am I to leave now, Your Grace?" he asked.

"In the name of the Seven, no!" Baelor denied. "You'll only fall from your mount, most probably. Tomorrow before sunrise."

"Should I come back?" the man asked and sat in front of the fire.

"I think there will be no time," Baelor said and took his dried meat out. "You'll just have to fight in Maekar's ranks. If there is some change, send someone to me but don't come yourself. And… take care of him, will you? Don't let him do something reckless unless he must."

Ser Carral raised an eyebrow. "What, like perching atop an unbroken horse?"

Baelor grinned. His brother had a liking for untrained horses, had had it since before he could walk and their mother had made the mistake of letting him see the stable hands trying to steer one towards the stall. With the passing of time, the fascination had only grown, to the collective horror of everyone in the Red Keep - well, except for their grandfather who found it amusing, probably because their father _was taking it too hard_. The most serious accident Maekar had had with these wild animals had left him with a fractured skull at age nine. Not that he had thought better of it afterwards.

"Yes," Baelor said. "Something like this." Then, he became serious. "He's quite hotheaded, as you know. And he doesn't have much practical experience. None of us does. Just watch him, yes?"

The moment of levity was gone. Ser Carral looked resolved. "I'll try, Your Grace," he said. "Only… you're telling me to watch over Prince Maekar, he's telling me to watch over you… And you both know you never do what I say. You do just what you've set your minds on doing. You're both headstrong. I can advise and I can stay silent, and it'll make no difference at all. There is no stopping either of you."

Baelor had been hearing this reproach for years and never taken it too hard. Now, he snickered and feigned a look of concern, although in truth, he was a little repentant thinking of all they had subjected the old knight to. "It can't be easy with us. We always get you angry, don't we?"

"There's no denying that!" Ser Carral grinned back. "But as you know, I don't like meek ones all that much. I like wildlings, with the seven hells in their blood."

"It's the seven hells where I am sending you." Baelor was now grim again. "It's the seven hells we'll soon turn this land into."

 _No quarter given or taken._ Daemon had had his chance. And no one could go back to the crossroad he once chose a road at and take a different one.


	5. Daemon

The night was dark, and blue, and scented with the aroma of roses and lilies. From his place at the open terrace, Daemon stared in the distance. The stars were so bright, he could count each one of them… but not too far away, just over the hills, there was another kind of stars burning: the fires of the enemy camp. His eyes went to the brightly lit tent. It didn't have dragons on it but it was so big and surrounded by men-at-arms that he had no doubt that it was the commander's tent. Maekar's.

For a while, Daemon stared at it, his mind reeling with all the things he had to do before the battle tomorrow. He had hoped that they might have another day or two to plan their things better but Maekar had made an appearance too early. Not that Daemon was surprised. _He was always a quick learner_ , he thought and remembered that their teachers in the Red Keep had never tired of praising Maekar's grasp of strategy and his single-minded determination. If he had decided that he would reach the Silver Peak in a given time, then he would reach it, even if he had to crumble and die at the gates. And it seemed that his host had picked up on his resolve.

 _Are you so eager to die, Maekar?_ Daemon wondered. He did not relish the thought of making Lady Naeryne a widow – she was too beautiful and seemed to be as kind as Maekar was insufferable. However, the rumour was that she loved her husband and Daemon had never enjoyed making a woman cry. He supposed he would have to find her a new husband soon – and a better one than Maekar. Her boys would have to be send to some ramshackle castle in the middle of nowhere, of course. There were many years ahead until any of Daeron's grandchildren grew up enough to pose a problem.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices. In the solar behind him, a group of young knights laughed and planned what they would do after the battle tomorrow.

"I'll turn the Grey Lion run with his tail between his legs," Ser Maryl Fletchley said. "And then, I'll go under Casterly Rock to dig out all the gold Lannisters hide there."

"I'll take some silver instead," Jon Strickland replied. "I'll do me some good."

The other man laughed. "Silver? I thought copper would suffice to the brothels you prefer."

Jon Strickland laughed. Daemon was pleased to see his men so relaxed before the battle. He liked his people confident. "The one I have in my mind is far more expensive than that," he said. "I saw her at King's Landing a few years ago. In fact, she is worth ten thousands dragons but since her fool of a husband shuns her bed, I think silver would do. She'd be grateful to have a real men to get her warm, I think."

Daeron's good cheer disappeared. He listened intently. Sure, the fool went on, "And what's this about whores? If Aelinor adorns herself with jewels and dons a clinging attire or… if she lets her hair loose and take her finery off, all of it… would she be inferior to the best whores of…"

"Who are you talking about?" Daemon interrupted, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Aelinor the Undesired, Your Grace," Jon Strickland said readily. His smile disappeared as he saw the look in Daemon's eyes.

"Lady Aelinor Targaryen, you cur," Daemon snapped. "Say it after me."

"Lady Aelinor Targaryen," the young man said obediently and then gave him a look of astonishment. "But why are you like this, Your Grace? I don't…"

Daemon waved the question off and strode out of the solar, just as surprised as the group of knights. What had gotten into him, really? Aelinor was Daeron's daughter; she was probably praying for Daemon's defeat right now. She was on the other side, firmly.

And still… how did these men dare talk about her like this? Her father might not be the true king but she was as high above them as the sun was. How did they dare make such plans? Aelinor was not a whore from a brothel, no matter what the rumours said. The only truth to that was that Aerys was a fool for shunning her bed. And being wed to him made her untouchable for other men.

 _Maekar deserves it_ , Daemon thought gloatingly. _It serves him right. For all his arrogance and bad temper, he does love her, I know. So proud and haughtier than what is merited… it does serve him right to be parted from Aelinor. At least I am not suffering alone._ For he had witnessed the storm that had raged in the Red Keep when Maekar had been informed that he wouldn't have Aelinor, that he was to marry Lord Velaryon's daughter instead. Knowing this, Daemon now wondered how he had ever entertained the idea that after refusing Maekar and Aelinor, Daeron would mellow for him and Daenerys.

The worst part was that even after his victory, there was not much Daemon could do for Aelinor. She could not be allowed to take a highborn husband who would bed her and father grandchildren of Daeron's on her. It was either a solitary imprisonment – considering how it had worked for Daemon's mother, not a wise option – or a husband of such a low rank that her children could never pretend for anything. He didn't like it but that was the best option.

Engrossed in his thoughts, he didn't realize he had crossed all the way to the garden and was now pacing restlessly. Scent of food showed him that he was near the kitchens. He looked around and really, the patch of garden he had found himself in was sprouting vegetables alone. He started to turn – and almost fell over a servant with a huge bucket. "Your Grace please forgive me," the man stuttered, bowing.

Daemon scented the nasty aroma of bad food and grease and stepped aside, so that the man could proceed for the garbage pit. To his surprise, the white-haired servant headed for the wall of the building, obviously intending to go round. "Where are you going?" Daemon asked.

The man looked down. "To the dungeons, Your Grace. I am to feed the prisoners. With cooking for the army, we didn't have the time…"

"You are to feed…"Daemon repeated and there was fury and disbelief in his voice. Star Peak was the place they had sent all their major captives to. The disgusting stench from the bucket almost made him retch when the realization dawned. "You feed them _this_?" he asked and eyed the bucket with disgust.

The man's shoulders stooped further and that was the whole reply Daemon needed. "Lead the way," he said. "Leave this here," he added impatiently when the servant started to walk still carrying the bucket.

The dampness started suffocating him as soon as they started climbing down. Here, the stench closely resembled this of a battlefield – the reek of blood, puss, waste, and fever. All this was overlaid by a layer of stuffy smell. The few torches in their brackets in the wall gave some light but also contributed to the heavy air.

The prison chambers were mere stalls, narrow and cramped. Not all of them had buckets, so in some of them the piss and waste were exposed in the corners, as far from the rushes as possible. In each stall, there was a man, incredibly thin and sick-looking. Some of them were delirious, others sat staring at a spot on the floor. The hotness in the dungeon immediately gave Daemon some idea of what was going on.

"For how long haven't you fed them?" he asked. "For how long they had not received water?"

The man cowered back. "Your… Your Grace," he started. "We did feed them but now, with the arrival of the army… the men-at-arms needed to be provided for first…"

Daemon knew it was so. Still, the look of the stalls and the men inside showed him that this was not a recent thing. These people – his captives whom he was responsible for, brave knights who had fought valiantly – had been starved and kept thirsty for weeks and months. And when the people in the castle had thought about them, it was to provide them with the garbage of those who lived in the castle. "How dare you," he spat. "What do you think you're doing? These are humans in there, you…"

The man's terrified face made him come to himself. No, it wasn't the servant's fault. He did what he was ordered to. The one who should answer to Daemon was Lord Strickland – the one he had entrusted the prisoners to. And Daemon would demand an answer… tomorrow.

"Bring some water," he ordered. "And something to eat. Not garbage but real food. Now!"

His relief evident, the man scurried away with speed that was quite unbefitting his years. Daemon hesitated and then stepped towards the first stall. The man there didn't even look at him – he was lying on the rushes, his face flushed, his eyes wandering in the clutches of fever. Daemon didn't know him.

In the next stall, a man sat with his back against the wall. His dark eyes followed each movement of Daemon's but they were devoid of life. He was so emaciated that his bones protruded under the skin. His face resembled a skull. It was hard to say whether he had seen sixteen or sixty namedays. And still, there was something to him that made Daemon unlock the door and enter. Something familiar.

The stench of the man almost made him draw back. But he didn't. He went near, caught the prisoner's chin and turned his face toward the torch in the hallway.

The man flinched and turned his face away. His head hung down. Unsure whether he had lost consciousness, Daemon shook him – and the answer came immediately.

"My back, you beast. Don't you touch my back."

The voice was raspy, barely audible – but along with the face, it suddenly gave Daemon the realization he had been trying to reach. He almost shook with pity and horror and slowly squatted next to him.

While Daemon was lauded as the Warrior, when asked who was the warrior he admired most, he always replied, "Ser Galend Highhill." That earned him looks of surprise because very few people had heard about the young knight of Maekar's household. He wasn't a descendant of a great family. He was not even noble. Just someone who had been captured aboard a pirate's ship and taken to Lannisport. Had Maekar not asked to have the slightly older boy serve him, he would have still probably be toiling in Lannisport. Instead, he had joined the royal household. Daemon still remembered how Maekar spent hours teaching him their language and other things, like holding a sword… Three months later, Galend had bested Maekar, to Daemon's great amusement. Four months later, he had bested Daemon himself, to his great embarrassment and surprise. With time, though, Daemon had come to understand that while he was greatly gifted, there were people who were truly natural in martial arts, people whose bodies were weapons in themselves. As physical abilities, Ser Galend surpassed by far Maekar, Daemon, and everyone else at court; as a warrior, he would have become the greatest one ever seen after Aegon the Conqueror himself. He would have… but then, he had sustained a serious wound in the arm. Almost immediately after, the Black Dragon had captured him and sent him here… to rot.

Daemon's anger was so hot that had Lord Strickland been here, he would have attacked him without thinking about the upcoming battle. He had entrusted his captives to Strickland – and he had turned a bright, promising man into a shadow. In Daemon's name. No matter how wrong Galend was, he had been a warrior. A brilliant one. He did not belong here, his life draining out of him little by little. If he was to die, it should have happened at the battlefield.

"I am sorry," Daemon said and drew his hand back. "What's wrong with your back?"

Yellow teeth flashed in the gaunt face. "The people here weren't too pleased with my lord's arrival, so they took it out on us," Ser Galend replied. His throat was so dry that his words were unclear, painful. "Is this why you're here?"

Surprised, Daemon found that he wanted to smile. So the ex-pirate was not broken. Daemon wasn't guilty of this. Not for a first time, he wished that he had seen in Galend what Maekar had obviously noticed first.

"No," he said. "I don't have time for entertainment. I am preparing to finally claim my crown."

Ser Galend huffed – a tortured sound full of disdain.

The servant returned with a bucket of water and a few mugs. Daemon filled one of them and nodded to the man to give water to the prisoners. He placed the mug to Galend's lips and supported his head, careful not to touch his back.

The other man drank thirstily, then looked at Daemon. "The crown does not belong to you, Ser," he said. "It is King Daeron's."

It was not a daring – more of a mere statement of a fact. Daemon stared at the captive. How many hardships had he encountered but how consistent his deeds were! How firm his convictions and his bond to Maekar must be! And how senseless and cruel it would have been if Daemon held that against him and not give him help.

"I'll send you help," he said. "Before I leave to defeat Maekar," he added. "Because he won't yield if I propose to spare his life, don't you agree?"

Ser Galend huffed again. This time, it looked easier, with his lips wetted and his throat soothed somewhat. His eyes, though, still glowed with fever and his skin was sickly yellow."If you were in my lord's position, would you have accepted such a proposal?"

Daemon didn't deign this with an answer.

Ser Galend smiled. "You see? You're more than my lord than you think."

The thought of being anything like Maekar disturbed him. He rose. "I'll send you my maester," he said. "I want you to be healthy when you accompany me at entering King's Landing."

"Don't bother, " Ser Galend replied. "I'll go there with my lord."

They locked eyes, both smiling with irony.

"What great faith you have in him," Daemon said.

"It isn't as if I have much else left," Ser Galend murmured, matter-of-factly.

He still had his life, although by the look of him it wasn't clear how long that would last. Daemon filled the mug anew and called the servant. "Take him out of here," he said. "Bring him to a room that deserves to be called that. And call my maester."


	6. Daeron

The city was silent, as if there were no living people inside. Everyone spoke in whisper. Everyone listened with both ears, looked around for the city gates, as if expecting the darkest misfortune or the most glorious news of all.

Those who, thirty-five years ago, had sent their fathers and brothers away with the Young Dragon to conquer Dorne were now anxious about their sons and husbands. And those who had spent their nights without rest worrying for their sons, now prayed to the Seven to spare their grandsons' lives. So many years had passed without wars that people had almost forgotten what war tasted like – and an entire generation, indeed, didn't know. Daeron preferred it this way and he had done all he could to keep it so.

Should Daemon win now, the first thing he would do would be pushing the realm into a new war with Dorne. It wouldn't even matter whether he wanted it or not – his martial supporters would leave him with no choice. Daeron shook his head. _Do you even know what you're getting yourself into, you silly boy?_ he wondered. Of course Daemon didn't. He only saw things in the short term – remedying the wrongs he imagined had been done to him, marrying Daenerys – Daeron still wondered what Daemon intended to do with his current wife – and win Dorne with his sword. Daeron held some memories of the Young Dragon – very vague, indeed, but he remembered how charming and self-confident he had been. And how he had ended up – he and the realm both. No matter what would happen now, Daena had done her son no favour feeding him tales of battles and glory, and how he was so very much like his uncle… Sooner or later, Daemon would end up badly – if not in this battle, then in another one, or just by the hand of those who pushed him when he finally realized that they were pushing him and tried to put an end to it. To his own surprise, Daeron still didn't want Daemon to come to harm, although rationally, he had no doubt that the boy should be eliminated. It was either this or endless wars. Either Daemon or Daeron's own children. There was no doubt in his heart that he had made the right choice.

He just wished he hadn't needed to.

The meeting of the Small Council had just ended and Daeron was glad he no longer needed to sit there. Aside from the very grave matters they discussed, Baelor and Brynden's empty seats were a constant reminder that their occupants were so far away and in mortal danger.

The Red Keep was as silent as King's Landing itself. Of course, Myriah would not let her worry show but her ladies felt it anyway and shared it – they all had someone to be anxious about, so they were not in the mood for chatting and organizing festivities. Lyselle was at the end of the fourth month of her pregnancy and usually slept for most of the day. Daeron had been quite horrified at learning that she had come by ship all the way from Dragonstone but he was now glad that she was here. With the speed the events were unfolding, there was no safe place in the realm. And it was a good thing to see her with child – for a while, everyone had feared that she'd never be able to give Baelor another babe.

From Aelinor's chambers, there was a constant flow of music, all hours of the day. Myriah avoided going near there because it angered her, although both she and Daeron knew that their daughter's conviviality and laughter were just another form of anxiety. Aelinor had all kind of tunes played for her and she danced and twirled for hours until she threw herself on the couch and fell asleep right there. Daeron only worried because for a few weeks, she had looked quite ill, although she insisted that she was fine and hadn't let any maesters near.

Now, Daeron made a quick step backward when a door suddenly opened and a young woman stormed out. Had he not stepped back, she would have bumped right into him. "I am sorry…" she started and then blushed furiously, realizing whom she was talking to. "I apologize, Your Grace," she said.

Daeron smiled. "No harm done, child. Where were you going?"

She looked unsure. Her pale hand trembled to her side. Daeron wondered whether she had taken any nourishment today. According to Maekar, she had been having trouble eating since the very beginning of her last pregnancy and it showed. And the war now was not helping matters. Her skin was so pale, it was almost translucent. Her silver-golden hair had lost its brilliance.

"I don't know. Somewhere away from my chambers," his gooddaughter replied. "The children have decided to make as much noise as possible and even I can't control them, let alone the others. They don't seem to hear what I am saying. I don't know why this is. I just had to get away before I gave them a good spanking." She blushed.

Daeron smiled, amused all of a sudden. So there was something that could make Naeryn lose it. He had thought that if she could tolerate even Maekar's temper with her usual gentleness, there was nothing in this world to provoke her into something even remotely violently. "How familiar," he said. "Hearing by choice. Since their father has been suffering from the same malady since he was a year old, you'd better get used to it."

Naeryn looked ready to protest but then reconsidered. Instead, she sighed. "And how did you deal with it?" she asked and started walking next to him. The King knew better than taking her by the hand. She seemed to have developed aversion to their touch – even Maekar's. Or maybe especially Maekar's. His son hadn't said a word about it but the news about the deformities of the stillborn babe had reached King's Landing almost immediately. As much as he hated it, Daeron knew that stillborn children with dragon traits were born in the Targaryen line, not the Velaryon one.

"It was hard," he said. "Five children, each affected by this contagious illness earlier than the older ones. A few times, Myriah considered taking them to the maesters to have two more ears carved into each of their heads."

Naeryn laughed. For a moment, she looked like the woman she had been only a year ago, her eyes shining, her lips set apart in the wide smile that could win any heart.

"Will you come to keep us company tonight?" he asked. He didn't like seeing her secluded in her chambers and that was what she did each night after dinner. She was always busy with her many charities and she seemed to purposefully avoid the rest of the royal family.

She hesitated. "I… I don't want to intrude, Your Grace."

"Ah Naeryn! You're my son's wife and therefore our own daughter, and you can never intrude. It's your home here, just like in Summerhall. Come on, let's go to Myriah. She'll be glad to see you."

He figured that if the two women could spend some time together saying unkind and downright unfair things about him and Maekar, it would do them some good. At least, it couldn't become worse – Naeryn could hardly discuss her husband in a negative way with any of her ladies. And she would not bother Lyselle with this kind of troubles. The Mother knew that her goodsister was scared enough that the same thing might happen to her. Naeryn was too kind to do this to another woman. Myriah, though… like Naeryn, she was an outsider come into the family by marriage. She was pretty repelled by some of their customs, too. And she had blamed Daeron when it had become clear how Rhaegel was. Right now, they had stopped sleeping together and indeed, living together. Yes, Myriah could use some chance to rant about him, too. And she would be right. She had insisted that he send Daemon away as soon as he was crowned. She had repeatedly warned that things with the boy were going too far. He hadn't listened and that was where they were. They could lose their kingdom. They could lose their sons at the battlefield. No, he could not blame her for being angry.

Naeryn lowered her lashes and blushed, clearly ashamed that she had made it look like she avoided her goodmother. Then, she smiled faintly. "I will," she said. "As soon as I come back."

Daeron knew that each night, she went to the Great Sept. He had only insisted that she took a good number of guards, for as popular as she was with the people, caution was never expendable. She had complied.

He left her in the rose garden and went to meet the new envoy of the Iron Bank. Then, he had to see the commander of the Gold Cloaks, for with all the refugees flowing into the city, the pillaging and disturbance could become a regular thing. Then, he had to see the Master of Laws who had asked for a private meeting…

* * *

As always, the Great Sept and the square in front of it were full of people. The lines went along the road leading up to Visenya's Hill but everyone parted for the Princess of Summerhall's group, the sturdy guards flanking the small slender woman and her entourage of four ladies. She looked just as haggard and worn out as the rest of them who had sent their husbands to the war against the pretender. Her violet eyes looked larger, darkened to indigo. The whispers rose. Had she heard something that they hadn't? For weeks, everyone had looked up at the sky for ravens.

Naeryn entered the Hall of Lights, passed the aisles, crossed to the dome and bowed to the Great Septon. He opened his mouth to start the ceremony of the public prayer. Everyone knelt.

With a swift motion, Naeryn took her cloak off. Everyone stared, surprised. The Princess had always liked jewels but she avoided wearing too many at a time. Now, she was adorned like the statues some of the Essosi worshipped. Huge rubies, sapphires, and diamonds shone on her neck. Heavy earrings reached her shoulders. A magnificent coronet held her fair hair tamed. Four rows of diamonds cinched her slender waist. Slowly, she took the coronet off, unclasped the girdle, reached for the earrings and necklaces. Everyone stared, astounded.

Naeryn went to the altar of the Father and placed her jewels next to the candles. Then, she knelt down for a short prayer. Her lips were moving but no one could hear what she was saying. Then, she rose and said softly, "I am donating them for the treatment of those suffering from the greyscale… I beg the Seven to have mercy on the Seven Kingdoms."

For a moment, there was a complete silence. Then, all the ladies gathered in the Great Septs started pushing their way to the alter. Each of them took off whatever she wore – rings, necklace, bracelets… The small pile next to the Princess' jewels started mounting. The huge hall was filled with soft whispers, prayers for luck, for victory, for their men coming back alive…

Finally, the Great Septon started the ceremony. They all knelt down, giving the double doors a last look in their search of ravens.

* * *

_Late in the night…_

When he was reasonably sure Myriah was asleep, Daeron finally dragged himself towards their bedchamber. He was terribly weary, worn out with anxiety and keeping the calm façade. He could barely stand, his head was full of questions with no answers at all, his heart was full of worry for those who were far away at the battlefield and he could say that sleep would not be quick to come to him tonight.

He intended just to have a look at Myriah before he went to bed. For the last few months, their relationship had become more strained than he remembered it in all their years together. They could hardly stay in the same room anymore without going at each other's throats. They still appeared in public together and spoke to each other but the moment they closed the doors to their private wing, they went on their separate ways. Daeron had moved out of their bedchamber, instead of suffering Myriah's presence and making her suffer his. Still, each night before he went to bed, he entered their chamber and stood next to the bed looking at her, listening to her breathe. It calmed him down.

This time, though, she rose in bed as soon as he opened the door. He didn't know whether she hadn't gone to sleep at all, or he had been noisy. She opened her mouth for an angry remark and then her eyes went all over him and her face changed, softened in the yellow candlelight. She lay back and pulled the bedcovers back for him. He undressed, blew out the candle and lay next to her, unsure what her intentions were. To his surprise, she immediately reached out for him, holding him tight. Hot tears moistened his neck. "I am so sorry," she whispered.

 _She_ was sorry? Why should she? She wasn't the one who was weak and despised by the more martial of the lords; she wasn't the one who had not felt the danger in advance and failed to act accordingly. He was the one who had sent his most precious beings to fight his battle because he was incapable of doing so. If anything, he should be the one sorry for putting her through the greatest horror a mother could come true. He told her that and she clasped him more tighter. "These are words Aegon planted in your head decades ago," she said firmly. "And I don't want to hear them ever again. There are only two men who are responsible: Aegon and Daemon Blackfyre. And you're better than both of them combined. I don't think the young fool realizes how much he owes you. He's amazingly blind when it suits him. He doesn't want to see how bastards are usually treated here… and if I had had my way, he would not have been strutting around at court. Instead, he would have spent the last fourteen years somewhere off in a Northern castle forgotten by all. At least he would have had some cause to whine about the evil Dornishwoman, then."

Daeron could say that this time, she didn't mean it like a reproach but it still felt like one because that was what he should have done to prevent this carnage. "Yes," he said. "You were right and I was wrong. But at the time, I couldn't do anything else."

Myriah squeezed his hand. "You love him still," she said and for the first time since the beginning of the rebellion, it didn't sound like an accusation. "This traitor, this self-conceited prig."

Daeron was silent. It wasn't something he could control. He still held some fondness for the boy Daemon had been – and the man, he pitied, for no matter what Myriah thought, Daemon was noble. The rebellion was not his doing, at least not entirely. He hadn't had a clear idea what he was getting himself into.

Not that it mattered, he was still the enemy.

Myriah clung to him once again. "Forgive me," she said softly. "I am only a stupid mother and I fear for my sons. My fear blinded me for everything else, including what you are going through, and it was cruel of me. But it's all over now. I came to myself. We'll make it through this."

Words were wind. Their sons were those who had to make it through this alive and victorious, for any of them to be able to survive. But it felt so good to be forgiven and accepted back. The last few months had been incredibly lonely. He had become used to her warmth and constant support and when she had withdrawn them, it had hurt him more than Daemon's ingratitude.

As if reading his thoughts, she murmured, "I feel so bad when I wake up and you aren't next to me where you belong. I don't want you to go, ever again. Don't leave me. Better with you, no matter what, than without you."

He smiled in the darkness. He had often thought the same, for his life with her was anything but a quiet one. He would not trade it for the world.

Still, it was yet to be seen whether they would have a life at all after the dragons met at the battlefield.


	7. The Black Queen

The day was already dying when the dark waves of the warriors came in view. The gates were immediately opened, without the tiniest bit of resistance. Silviana was not surprised. From the moment she had heard of their defeat, she had witnessed how the people in the great castle had started planning to stay alive, at any cost. She did not care either way. Resistance would only bring more deaths and destruction. Why resist now? Daemon was dead. Her oldest sons were dead, too, and the others were running away. Silviana prayed to the Mother to keep them safe. Why resist, indeed? For her sake? Without Daemon, without her children she wasn't worth anything to anyone. And her grief was too great to allow for angry defiance just for the sake of defiance.

"Your Grace," Yolinta started. "Would you want me to…"

Silviana shook her head. No, she didn't want her shawl, or a headdress, or whatever Yolinta wanted to bring her. What did looks matter now? "And call me _my lady_ , Yolinta. Just _my lady_. My queenship ended before it even started."

"But you should look presentable for the Prince…" the girl insisted and then blushed, realizing exactly how she had sounded.

Vaguely amused, Silviana smiled to show her that she was not offended. Once , she had been a renown beauty with dark-auburn hair and sparkling green eyes; thirteen years and ten pregnancies later, she could not impress a shepherd, let alone a prince even if she wanted to. She looked around and saw that the rugs were carpeted with tufts of hair – her own that she had thorn in despair…

She met Baelor Targaryen in this same solar a little later. The day was cold, so her servants had recently refreshed the fire. It was unbearably hot in the room but nothing in this world could get Silviana warm again.

With faint surprise, she realized that Daemon had been right – the man did not look like a Targaryen, save for his deep indigo eyes. In them, she saw compassion that shook her to the core, for she had not been prepared for it.

"My lady," the young man said. "I am sorry for your loss."

She only nodded, for she feared that if she opened her mouth, she would start weeping anew. How strange that such a small thing, such an insignificant detail as the enemy's compassion might break her.

"I'll see that you're taken care of," he promised.

 _It doesn't matter anymore_ , she thought. She had lost her children, she had lost her place in the world and her own House, Reyne, had to save whatever it could. All the care in the world could not make it better.

"Are you going to take me to King's Landing?" she finally asked without much interest. Her voice came out hoarse, cracked. He went to a nearby table and poured her a goblet of wine. Silviana drank and only when she drank did she realize how thirsty she was.

"I'm afraid we have to." He sounded apologetic. It struck her that he was the first man in as many as two years who showed respect to her that looked genuine. He. The enemy. For a moment of madness, she tried to imagine how different her life might have been if she had married him and not Daemon. He was as gallant as her husband but unlike Daemon, he looked like a man who could control his feelings. She was sure that no matter how undesirable he had come to find her – and how many beautiful silver-haired princesses there were around – he would have never let it show. At the end, Daemon had not quite managed it, although he had tried.

It lasted only for a moment; in the next one, reality came surging back. She could see the victorious host passing through King's Landing and up Aegon's Hill, the flowers for the returning men, the cheering faces and septons and septas praising the Seven… and herself, being paraded in shame, perhaps forced to walk behind Baelor's horse, chained and barefooted.

Only when she felt the strong arms holding her did Silviana realize that she had swayed precariously. Baelor rested her in the nearest chair and called out for her attendants. "You have nothing to fear of, my lady," he assured her. No doubt , he thought that the wetness against her bodice was sweat of fear.

"She isn't scared," a new voice cut in. A face appeared in front of her and Silviana barely suppressed her cry. Silver hair, violet eyes – for a mad moment of hope, she thought it was Daemon who was not dead, no matter what everyone said.

It was not him, of course. And the newcomer did not even look like him. He could be no one else but Maekar Targaryen, a man Daemon had held in special dislike. "Come on," he told his brother. "Leave her to her attendants."

"I want to make sure…"

"You're not helping her," Maekar interrupted. "Let's go."

Silviana closed her eyes so she did not have to look at him. He had _seen_. She was entirely humiliated. Maekar Targaryen knew that Bittersteel had not considered her worthy enough to spare time and come here to take her with them even in her condition. He had only ridden to the castle where her children were kept. Daemon had placed them in different locations for safety, _should need arise_ , he had added, laughing. He had not believed that he might lose. It had simply never been an option. Silviana felt such a fury that she was stunned. It was not enough that the entire realm knew her husband desired another woman and had presumably started a war over her. _You don't really believe them, do you,_ Daemon had asked. He had never wanted to see how humiliating it was for her. Of course she knew there were many more reasons than his passion for that pale-haired sister of his! But the world didn't. And the fact was, Silviana had known very well who Daemon's preferred wife would be. He had loved Daenerys. Once, he had desired Silviana but she had little to offer him now. Her beauty was ruined. Compared to the Princess, she would have always looked like the lesser wife.

It was not enough that he had taken their eldest boys to battle, although she had begged him not to.

It was not enough that she had lost them. Now, her other children were lost to her, too, and she was left here to live in mourning and worry, her milk still flowing for a babe that was hundreds of miles away.

All Silviana had to expect now was what the part that the victors would allot her.


	8. Maekar

"What in the seven hell do you mean, there is no way around it? He is in pain and there must be a way to relieve it!"

There were few things that could enrage Maekar Targaryen more than sheer stupidity but he kept his voice under control because the last thing the man lying in agony only a few steps away from them was dealing with Maekar's own raised voice. He had suffered enough damage without them needing to add up to it.

"But Your Grace," the maester insisted. "If I give him some milk of poppy, the dosage will have to be big enough to knock him out!"

Maekar rolled his eyes. Really, what was so bad about a man being put to sleep for a day or three so he wouldn't have to deal with the pain when it was at its peak? The Seven knew that Brynden Rivers was not lucid now either, although he wasn't unconscious. Maekar truly felt that the most compassionate thing they could do for him now was knock him out with whatever concoctions the maesters could come up with.

"Very well, knock him out," he agreed and the man went to work, giving him a frightened look from time to time. Maekar wondered what rumours exactly the traitors spread about him to produce this effect. Everybody knew that the maesters were sworn to a castle and not a person… and the fact that this one was Daemon Blackfyre's own maester did not imply that he was an enemy. Until he actually committed a treason, the old man was quite safe in their hands.

Again, Maekar's eyes went to the man in the bed. And again, Bloodraven's hands went to his bandaged face.

Maekar went to the bed and removed the hands to prevent Bloodraven from hurting himself. "Hurry up," he snapped to the maester, wishing his own maester were here. But he was still tending the wounded ones so Daemon's should do.

The man kept preparing his potion and Maekar kept holding Bloodraven's hands away from his face. "Stay calm," he said evenly. "It's over now. No one is going to hurt you."

Fortunately, the hands were too weak to resist the pressure of his own. And even when conscious, Bloodraven was no match for Maekar in sheer strength – they had come to this conclusion again and again since they had never gotten along all that fine. But now, it didn't matter. Bloodraven was one of theirs, a man wounded in defense of King Daeron's throne and Maekar would do anything in his power to help him get better. He owed the man that.

Finally, the maester announced that the potion was ready and went at Bloodraven's bedside just when the door opened to admit Baelor who ventured inside. _The day has been long for him_ , Maekar thought. From the brief words that they had had the time to exchange, as well as Ser Carral's story, he knew that Baelor could not have had more than five hours of sleep for the last two days. Now, with only Maekar in attendance, he stumbled, his strength leaving him. Maekar helped him to the nearest chair. "It was about time for you to appear," he said. "I almost had to rescue myself."

Baelor grinned. "From what I saw, you had the situation well at hand." He looked at the bed. "How is he?"

"He'll survive," Maekar said. "If we keep the wound clean, I mean. Who managed to do this to him?"

Although extremely thin, Brynden Rivers was a strong man and skilled with arms, so Maekar's question was not surprising. Baelor didn't bother to look up – he was too tired. "Aegor," he said.

"Aegor," Maekar repeated after him. "Did they catch him?" he asked.

Baelor shook his head barely visibly and Maekar poured him a goblet of wine. "No," Baelor said. "They are still chasing him. But they won't catch up with him, I fear."

"They might still," Maekar insisted and Baelor sighed.

"I'd like to see you not deluding yourself for once, brother," he said. "What happened to your wound?" he asked.

Maekar looked down at himself. The bandage was carefully hidden beneath his doublet and since the worst of the wound had become visible only after he had removed his armour, very few people would know about it. In fact, the worst of the pain was not due to the wound itself but the pieces of armour cutting into him. He had been ordered to stay abed for a few days. He had followed the advice to a little over two hours.

"I'm fine," he said.

"I didn't expect to find you here," Baelor commented, looking at the man in the bed.

Maekar shrugged noncommittally – and immediately regretted it when a bruised rib protested. "I don't want to explain in King's Landing why we lost him," he said. "I mean, I know he's a scoundrel and all but Father is fond of him."

Baelor laughed. "That's two jokes in a single conversation," he said, approvingly. "I quite like it. Only, don't get carried away, lest Father decides to make you a court jester upon our return."

Their conversation was so uninhibited. It felt weird to think that they had just won the battle. The war. That people were still screaming and dying. That Daemon was no more. An enemy he might have been, but he had been a part of their lives since they were born. Baelor had been his friend, Maekar had rarely stood the sight of him but he had been there for so many years.

For a while, they were silent, looking at Bloodraven while the maester patiently poured the potion into his mouth.

"Did you find him?" Maekar finally asked. "The boy of the Raven's Teeth he asked you to look for?"

Baelor nodded, his face suddenly grim. "We found both him and the bow. In front of them, eighteen bodies. Not a single arrow in the quiver. But the boy was sprawled over the bow. I swear, it looked like he was still covering their retreat. "

Maekar clenched his teeth. "He didn't even try to save himself?"

"He didn't," Baelor said. "From what I saw, I'd say he shot all his arrows out, down to the last one, and waited for the rebels who ran him down."

For a while, they were silent. "Did he have a family?" Maekar asked. "We have a duty to him."

"I agree."

The maester rose and announced that he was done. They both looked at the bed. Bloodraven was lying still, his colour still ash-grey but at least he wasn't squirming in pain any more.

When the maester scurried away, Baelor set the goblet aside. "We cannot send a raven to King's Landing," he said. "The castle ravens were all killed and we already spared all of ours."

"A man, then?" Maekar suggested. "I'll see to that."

He was now clearly better and Baelor was clearly in dire need of a rest, so the Crown Prince only nodded. "I saw the last letter that arrived here, though," he said. "It was sent yesterday from King's Landing. It looks like everyone is fine… and you won't believe what Naeryne did."

Maekar silently waited for the explanation.

"She donated her jewels for those suffering from the grayscale," Baelor said. "She took some of them off publicly and then sent the other boxes to the Great Septon."

Maekar didn't bat an eyelid. That was all very interesting but it couldn't surprise him in the least. Should he be surprised after he had had Naeryne bargaining with him about this ridiculous shelter of hers? A shelter for unwed mothers at Summerhall, what an idea! He had indulged her, thinking that her charity would crumble almost immediately but to his great astonishment, she had even made it work. Now, he had only the vaguest idea what she had been thinking when she had given up a whole fortune in the shape of jewels but he wasn't surprised. And still… all her jewels? He would have to see to it that they be actually sold and the money used for the admirable purpose his lady wife had set her heart upon. He would rather not put the Great Septon's altruism to trial.

"I'll have to buy her some other trinkets, then," he said and forced back the laughter rising in his throat at the look on Baelor's face. His family knew that Naeryne was a good and devout woman but the true extent of her eccentricity was something they had never truly realized. _He's only starting to realize that his precious goodsister is capable of bringing us all to ruins in her zeal._

Baelor rose heavily. "I am going to sleep," he announced. "If you need something from me, wake me up."

"Of course," Maekar said. _No way in hell,_ he added in his mind. _You'll sleep until you've fought the worst of this fatigue off._

Baelor headed for the lord's bedchamber that he had taken for his own for the length of their duration. Maekar met with Ser Carral, oversaw the distribution of a few parties sent to make sure that there won't be any unexpected attack from an unknown host of Daemon's, visited the halls where the wounded were sheltered and made sure that they were tended adequately. Finally, he searched the entire third level where he and Baelor slept. There was nothing disturbing. He was only surprised to see Daemon's maester in a small room, leaning over a bed.

"A wounded that I do not know about?" Maekar asked sharply. He wasn't against the rebels receiving treatment , and a good one, but he had made clear that their own people should have priority. As far as he knew, none of their commanders was seriously wounded. The killed ones, though… there were so many of them.

The man startled and shot him a terrified look. It verged on insanity – did he really think that Maekar would swing his mace at him right now?

The Prince silently came near the maester and the shadow he was examining. Long gaunt limbs, yellow face, no flesh over the bones – no, the man was not wounded but he was close to death. He had clearly been starved and maybe deprived of water as well, if his cracked lips were any indication. But it made no sense – why would Daemon punish him and then lodge him in this modestly but well furnished room to rest? Maekar was about to ask when the man's expression changed; with a jolt that left him shaken, Maekar recognized him, the first joy of seeing him alive after he had thought him dead swiftly replaced by horror and regret. All that his faithful companion had gone through – it was all because of him. He reached out and took his hand to squeeze it.

The returning squeeze was so faint that Maekar got scared. He looked at the maester. "What's wrong with him?" he asked.

The old man cleared his throat. "He hasn't been receiving any water for a while," he said. "His kidneys had ceased working and the humors they cannot draw out are killing him."

Grimly, Maekar nodded his understanding and decided that now, it was not the moment to question as to why water had been withheld from Ser Galend. "What is the treatment?" he asked.

"Drinking water," the maester replied. "As much as he can take and then some. We need to make his kidneys work again. That's the only way."

Again, the Prince understood. It sounded very easy, indeed, but there was a reason why some of the most painful tortures included water.

"I have no more need of your service," he said. "I'll take care of him myself."

The maester was quick to leave. Maekar took a chair at Ser Galend's bedside, picked up the ewer of cold water and brought it to his friend's lips.


	9. Daeron

The soft glow of the dawn washed in rosy caress the courtyard, the bedchamber, the great oak bed with carved dragons. Standing near the window, Daeron watched the silent rest of Maegor's Holdfast, the relief of the guards on its entrance. Even the palace dogs had picked on the lack of any activity, it seemed, for now they made no sound while usually they were the first to greet the new day with their excited barking.

A chambermaid with a basket of laundry crossed the yard in a hurry – and she seemed to be the only one awake. Usually, the servants were astir far before the first faint glean on the horizon but now, the entire palace was in a state of lethargy that kept them going at a lower pace, as if concern paralyzed them, as if they saw no use of hastiness when they might not survive for more than a month yet.

Behind him, Myriah stirred and let out a soft moan. Daeron turned around and made his way back to the bed. She hadn't awoken yet but she had curled in a ball, pressing her hands between her thighs. Daeron carefully reached out and disentangled them, rubbing gently. She didn't stir.

He bit his lip. Her dark fingers were now very white, with a bluish cast even. A quick look at the fireplace showed him that the fire had died out. After taking care of that, he climbed back in bed, holding her close and rubbing her hands. She had never taken winters well but with age, her condition had spread over even to colder springs. Daeron wished for summer to come. All her gloves and warm clothes were little help against the illness that kept her hands and feet spasming, making it hard for her blood to reach them.

She snuggled close, again without opening her eyes. _She wants to sleep through all the time until we get some news_ , he thought. _Even pain cannot rouse her._ Her fear was stronger. Usually, she was up at sunrise, if not earlier, but not now. Now, she would have nightmares all night long and fall asleep only before dawn, a heavy sleep that brought no relief but no pain either.

All of a sudden, he remembered her long naps each time she had been with child. Once, she had told him that she wanted to sleep through her way to the birth and wake up to be handed a babe. So long ago it had been. And how she had cherished her sleep afterwards, going to sleep wherever he placed her, the moment he did!

" _There is no room for me here,"_ a small sad voice said in his mind; with his inner eye, Daeron saw Baelor, no more than three of four, peeking at them from the foot of their bed, small face wrinkled in a frown. It was all drama, of course, Baelor knew that his father would reach out for him and suddenly, there would be room for him. And then, the crying of an infant; at Maekar's birth, Myriah had been so sick with exhaustion and worries that she could not wake up even when Daeron held the squealing newborn right to her face. And it was not because there was a problem with their son's lungs – their attendants could hear him from behind the door and down the hallway.

 _They are so different, always were._ Baelor, thriving on caresses, attention and mischief, even as a babe, and Maekar who had hated being squeezed, carried around and kissed to no end. With him, every attempt to hold him, rock him to sleep or cuddle him would have been violence against someone who could not defend himself. Myriah had felt terribly guilty.

Would they come back? Were they still alive? It had been ten days since the arrival of the last raven. They all could be dead now – Baelor, Maekar, Brynden and yes, even Daemon. Just like Myriah, Daeron wanted to go to sleep and wake up in a world where it was all over.

With a heavy sigh, he rose and looked at her. To his relief, the crisis had gone away and her fingers were back to normal. A moment later, she opened her eyes and smiled at seeing him there but the smile faded quickly replaced by a questioning look.

"Is there…?"she started.

He shook his head and she closed her eyes again. Soon, her breathing evened out. Now that he was once again aware of how her days went, he knew that after waking up, she'd attend to her household affairs, admit the city women who came to make various appeals to her, and then sit down with her ladies to sew for the poor – obsessively. That would go on until it was time to go and visit the charity she held most dear – a house for very sick children whose parents could not tend them or who simply had no parents.

As to him, he had to receive the chosen representatives of various guilds who were rightfully concerned about the losses in their trade thanks to the war, decide on what measures he should enforce to keep the relative order around the Kingswood – for there were many who took advantage of the war to steal and kill on their own and then hide in the wood where no one could touch them, - then discuss the best route for sending new provisions since Daemon had broken the last line… In the beginning, he would do all that with the nagging thought of them still in his mind but with time, work would engulf him. From time to time, the fear would come anew but Daeron suppressed it, firmly reminding himself that the only thing he could do to help them was to keep what he was doing. And that those three were more than capable of holding their own.

This morning, there was someone waiting for him who came near as soon as he left his chambers. Daeron took her in, surprised: since the very start of the rebellion, their relationship had been strained and since the host had left this last time, she had purposefully avoided him – and he had not sought her out, either. Now, he noticed that she didn't look much better than Myriah, her silver hair disheveled, her frame appallingly gaunt. It was clear that she was not sleeping well either. He hadn't expected that she would.

"What are you doing here so early, Daenerys?" he asked.

"I was waiting for you."

"You shouldn't have," he said. "You could have come to me later. I wouldn't have turned you away, you know."

Despite the open antagonism she had been demonstrating towards him, he wouldn't have.

She nodded curtly. "I know, I know. But people stare and whisper and I…" Her voice broke. "What is going on? No one is telling me anything."

 _And why is that_ , Daeron asked in his head, cynically. Was it possible that it was due to the fact that she had openly defied him, claiming that she prayed for Daemon's victory? Maybe she truly was, he didn't know. What he knew was that that even if she wasn't, she was capable of lying, just to spite him. She hadn't taken into account that there were dozens of people listening. And now she had found herself alienated from everyone at court. There were simply no supporters of Daemon's cause left here.

"Nothing happened," he said. "At least that we know of."

Her violet eyes bore into him. "Are you telling me the truth?"

He shrugged and indicated that he was about to leave and that if she wanted to continue this conversation, she'd have to do it walking. She obeyed.

"Why would I lie to you?" he asked.

His voice was even. He could mean that he would not bother lying to her or that there was no use of that, since she would learn the truth, eventually. Daenerys didn't know which one it was and it was evident. He didn't tell her.

Finally, she nodded, satisfied. But she did not leave.

 _She's starved for human company, even mine_ , Daeron realized. "Will you join Myriah this morning?" he asked. "I know she'll be happy to see you."

He would take care of that because right now, Myriah was certain to be anything but happy to see Daenerys.

Her chin lifted defiantly but a moment later, the longing for a human contact won over. Daeron felt pity for her, for no matter how the war would end, there would be no winning situation for her. His wonder and anger at Daemon's foolishness arose for a hundredth time – had the boy really imagined that Daeron would give him Daenerys, and for a _second_ wife?

"Go to your chambers and eat something, Daenerys," he said. "And then, you can join them. They'll meet you most cordially, I assure you."

For a while, they kept walking silently. They were already at the huge doors leading out of the Maegor's Holdfast when Daenerys caught his hand and squeezed it briefly.

"I didn't…" she started. "I wasn't… You know I didn't mean it."

All of a sudden, he laughed. Those children! They thought themselves so smart, so complicated. They didn't realize that he knew them better than what they would like. "I know," he said.

She hadn't meant it because now, she had no idea what she meant. Looking at her, he only prayed that one day, she'll find peace.

* * *

_Later in the evening…_

"Did you manage to see something?" Myriah asked as they were having their evening meal in the great hall. Now, it was important to keep appearances up, for appearances kept spirit and helped the normal functioning of the palace and hence, the city. It didn't matter that very few of them wanted something other than retiring to their chambers where they could let their brave masks down.

In the tense silence that followed, Shiera Seastar shook her head. "I haven't been able to glimpse anything for days, my lady."

"I hope they are all fine," Myriah murmured.

Lyselle closed her eyes in a prayer. Naeryn stopped pretending that she was eating and stared at Shiera, as if she could force the truth out of her. Aelinor's breath hissed in from between her teeth and even Daenerys sagged back into her chair, disappointed.

"It has already happened," the boy sitting next to Naeryn said confidently.

"What?" Myriah asked.

"The battle of the dragons. " The boy's eyes were wide and fearful. "They were clawing at each other in the sky and everywhere they flew, the grass went red."

His words echoed in the quiet hall, as if he had shouted.

"When?" the King asked, tensely. "Daeron, when did you dream of that?"

"It doesn't mean anything, Your Grace." Naeryn's lovely face was now white. She sounded like someone who was trying to convince herself. "Just a childish fantasy…"

Daeron and Myriah looked at each other. As hard as Maekar and Naeryn denied it, the King and Queen knew that their grandson had dreams that were not like other people's dreams. He had probably told his mother immediately what he had seen – and she had kept it a secret.

"Daeron, keep silent," Naeryn ordered angrily. "Are you doing this for effect?"

Couldn't she see that the boy wasn't? Daeron was clearly scared of his dream. He could not have invented it. Next to him, Aerion opened his mouth but a single look from his mother was enough to make him close it again.

"What did you see?" Myriah asked. "Did you see the colours?"

Young Daeron shook his head, his expression helpless. "I couldn't make them out. You see, there was so much blood…"

From all directions, huge shouts erupted. Everyone startled. Myriah slowly rose, her hand on her heart. Running steps approached. Someone threw the doors wide open. The castellan stood at the threshold, his face changed with emotion. A few guards rushed forward. Everyone was shouting at the same time.

A man hurried forward, a man covered in dust and dirt. He ran for the dais and barely stopped to bow.

"Which one is the Princess of Summerhall?" he asked.

Naeryn slowly rose, leaning against the table.

The man ran up the stairs and handed her a small leather casket.

"It's from the Prince! We won! We won!"

Now, the great hall really erupted. The man turned to Daeron and handed him a piece of parchment. Daeron broke the seal and immediately recognized Baelor's handwriting.

A seat away from him, Naeryn gasped and he looked at her. At the magnificent necklace of emeralds and diamonds that she held in her hands. A silver bracelet followed. Two rings with rubies…

"What…" she whispered.

"Silviana Blackfyre's jewels! She was captured when her husband fell!"

Daemon was dead. It was over.

Daeron had never expected that cutting through the joy and relief overcoming him, the pain would be so sharp.


	10. The Summer Princess

This morning, Naeryn woke up quite late, shivering with cold; remembering her dreams of icy mountains and the freezing contests of her childhood, she realized that she must have been cold for quite a while; a quick look at the hearth showed her that Tyalla had actually forgotten to add kindling before she fell asleep on her pallet. Naeryn did it now, working as quietly as she could, though she knew that the old woman who had been attending her lady mother since _she_ had been a girl younger than Naeryn had recently started going deaf, too. Still, she did not want to take even the slightest chance of making Tyalla realize that she had had another lapse in her duty. Tyalla had recently started to notice that all too often, she forgot what Naeryn had sent her for on the way to the other room to get it.

Task accomplished, Naeryn went into the adjacent chamber to wash and ask how the children were doing. The army wouldn't be back until noon, so she had plenty of time to make herself presentable. She sat in front of the looking-glass to brush her hair out and for a fleeting moment, her mind flew back to the ritual that had been almost a daily occurrence when she and her husband were together – he wielding the brush and wondering aloud what she did to her hair to make it this glossy and she smiling as if she were holding a secret when the truth was, the hair simply grew on her head this way. Despite everything that had happened, despite her aversion to him, the memory stirred something in her that she reluctantly recognized as longing. For the first time since Maekar's departure, she wondered whether he had found a companion among the camp whores that always accompanied hosts. He probably had. This did not bother her unduly, for in their world men were expected to stray. But did he brush _her_ hair out?

A bitter smile touched her lips. No, he wasn't. He preferred silver hair to all other, Naeryn had known it long before it had been announced that they would be wed.

She broke her fast and chose the gown she was about to wear, all the while waiting for Tyalla to awake, for the old woman would be heartbroken if her mistress was attired without her participation. The handmaidens filled her bathtub with hot water and she relaxed there for a while, scrubbing her skin and washing her hair. Finally, just when she thought she would need to rouse Tyalla from her sleep, the old woman appeared, looking apologetic. Smiling, Naeryn told her it was time to start getting dressed, and Tyalla busied herself with the details with her usual practicality.

"Violet," she murmured. "You should dress in violet today, my lady. Violet silks suit you marvelously."

"No," Naeryn said sharply. "Violet makes my eyes dark."

She never wore colours that made her lilac eyes darker. Aelinor Targaryen was indigo-eyed, the colour changing all too often to her mother's Dornish black. Today, she would put on a gown of crimson – a colour of joy and triumph that would make her eyes purple and lend some colour to her pale cheeks. Tyalla pressed some paint against her cheekbones and Naeryn stared hard into the looking-glass to make sure she would not overdo it. With the condition she had been since the beginning of the last, tragic pregnancy, it was too easy to make herself look not pink-cheeked but feverish instead.

Both women saw the Queen's reflection into the looking-glass first. When they started to turn and offer their curtsies, Myriah waved them not to bother. "We don't have this much time," she said. "Keep working."

"We're almost ready, Your Grace," Naeryn said, trying to hide her surprise at seeing her goodmother here. Ever since her arrival from Summerhall, she had been keeping her distance from the rest of the royal family and they were quite respectable to her wishes, although the Queen was the only one Naeryn didn't have anything against. Myriah was not to blame for the taint that ran in Maekar's veins. But she was Maekar's mother and as strong as Naeryn's revulsion for her husband had become, she vaguely felt that she was being terribly unjust, so she avoided Myriah out of shame. Not that Myriah would meddle… overtly. But Naeryn still couldn't forget a conversation between mother and son that she had stumbled on years ago, when they were first married…

" _Are you trying to wrap her in a silken cocoon, so she can be happy and content and as less bothersome as possible? I thought I've raised you to know better. You've let her sweet nature deceive you, I see. She won't be happy with a golden cobweb and she'll tear it apart."_

" _And stifle it in my mouth?" Maekar asked sardonically. "Is this what you long for, or what you're afraid might happen?"_

_Myriah raised her chin. "Does it matter? I do not presume to tell my children what to do and it's quite a relief, I might add. Between the day of Baelor's birth and the day you were finally grown up, I could outmatch any lord commanding his army in the giving orders department and it was terribly exhausting. I was merely curious as what you intended to do."_

_He looked irritated. "Please don't talk nonsense. Join the Silent Sisters, and then I_ might _believe you truly intend to leave us alone. But while you're still around, I know it for sure that I'll be hearing how disgracefully I'm treating this lovely girl and how I am ruining my life but being so foolish, I cannot really see it."_

" _Very well," Myriah said calmly. "I'll admit that I am concerned about the mull you're intent to make out of it. I'd like to see this marriage bringing you peace of mind, if not happiness."_

With time, Naeryn had realized just why Myriah had accepted her so readily. With more time, she had come to realize that no matter the Queen's initial motives, she had come to genuinely like and trust her. But that was because Naeryn had proved to be good for Maekar. Now, when she was downright unjust, she could hardly expect understanding on his mother's part.

"What jewels are you going to wear?" the Queen asked. With a smile, Naeryn realized that the end of all of it and her sons' anticipated return had brought the old Myriah back, with her expressive face and quick smile. Everyone in the Red Keep looked renewed – everyone but Daenerys, that was it. Naeryn herself was incredibly grateful that Maekar was safe and that it was over but at the same time, she expected his return with more than relief. There was fear, for the things between them were festering badly. She had never seen the poor thing that had slipped out of her womb but they both knew whose fault it was – if there was such a thing as a fault at all. So she kept her distance and he wasn't really trying to shorten it. _I am the reason_ , Maekar thought. _In his blood_ , Naeryn told herself. Unjust, so unjust. They both knew how unjust it was but they could not help but think it. So she was politely dismissive, he was willing to be respectful to her wishes, and the scent of burning bridges in the air was becoming strong enough to suffocate everyone around.

"I don't suppose I could borrow your rubies, my lady mother?" she asked without much hope, despite the fact that the Queen rarely wore them – she preferred emeralds and opals.

Myriah did not disappoint her. "I know you are not quite willing to flaunt jewels taken from a woman in Silviana Blackfyre's plea. But her side lost and everything that was hers is now ours by right. Her husband set it up this way, not you. You were granted those jewels as a sort of compensation for the ones you gave away. You'll be expected to wear them at the army's return. Such is the way of the world."

Naeryn sighed. She knew that even without her goodmother saying it. Silently, she reached in the casket and took a garnet necklace out. _Red like blood_ , she thought. _Like the grass Daeron won't stop talking about._ Still, she was a bit offended by the presumption that she needed Myriah to teach her the ways of the world. Despite her gentle nature, she was not unversed in those. And while she would not cherish wearing those jewels, she would do what needed to be done. It wasn't the moment to show how gentle and generous she was. That would be behavior fit for the little sugar-sop Maekar had first taken her for.

* * *

_A few hours later…_

Till her dying day, Naeryn never forgot the shock she felt when the carriage door opened and the woman came out. The exuberant shouts of the crowd turned to mocking jeers; in this moment, Naeryn realized why they had transported the captive in a closed carriage. It had not been a mistake by omission that would be so typical of Maekar and less – of Baelor. No, it had been a kindness, a way to protect her from the gleeful scorn that was now being casted her way from all sides. Had the smallfolk been able to have even a glimpse of her face, she would have been literally spat upon.

Next to Naeryn, Daenerys' breath hissed between her teeth.

Silviana Blackfyre slowly crossed the short distance, accompanied by two men-at-arms who shielded her from the scorn of the crowd; with her eyes brimming with tears of sympathy, Naeryn saw her sinking into a deep curtsy before Daeron and Myriah.

Again, Daenerys gasped. Aelinor caught her hand. "Control yourself," she hissed under her breath. "It isn't the moment to fall apart now."

Right now, Naeryn had little patience for Daenerys' anguish but it would not do to let her make something to shame all of them. So as soon as the ceremony was over, she and Aelinor took Daenerys aside and headed for the nearest door. Naeryn could feel Maekar's eyes on her. No doubt he thought she was avoiding him – in the light of their recent exchanges, there was no other conclusion he could possibly draw. But there was no time for explanations. And he wouldn't understand anyway. He didn't have it in him to be sympathetic to carelessness – with him, it was either doing what was right, so there was no need of pangs of conscience, or doing what turned out to be wrong, so he could berate himself over being such a fool. But conscious carelessness and sorry for having been careless, he would never fathom.

Aelinor's chambers were the closest ones to the great hall. As soon as they reached the bedchamber, Daenerys slumped over a coffer, as if she could not reach the bed.

"She looks like nothing, did you see?" The face she raised to them was wet with tears. "I remember when they first wed, what a great beauty she was. But I saw none of that today. I didn't know, I didn't realize…"

"What?" Aelinor snapped, tired of all those pretensions. All of them knew that Daenerys had wanted to marry Daemon without ever sparing a thought of the wife he already had. Aelinor's own predicament lay in another scope of life, entirely, and she had chosen another path, one that led to many anguishes and sorrows – but at least there were no pangs of conscience when it was too late for them to be any good at all.

Daenerys bit back a sob. "That she gave him all she had," she said softly. "That she has been facing the dangers of the birthing chamber for years while he flaunted his relationships at court for all the world to see – and yes, his love for me included. She was so beautiful once," Daenerys said again. "She isn't anymore. She's just a haggard, careworn woman who was grievously hurt by a war that was not hers and before – by the things I've done. I've encouraged him, you see. I wanted to marry him without ever giving a second thought at how she would take it. All the while, she had been destroying herself to do her duty by him while he flirted with me and had me convinced that I was entitled to his greatest love and care. Not once did I think that I was a complicit in ruining her. And now, Aegor has left her behind as if she is worth nothing – and never was."

Aelinor sighed and shook her head. "Ah, so you've finally seen," she said but there was no malice in her voice, just calm reality. She went on saying something else but Naeryn barely listened.

_She has been facing the dangers of the birthing chamber for years while he flaunted his relationships at court for all the world to see._

If Maekar was a different man, it might have been very well been Naeryn's own fate – constantly heavy with child, vulnerable, a stranger in her own body while her fickle husband chased after other women in front of everyone. She was well aware that he had not wed her willingly, that she had taken a place he had meant for another. He could have easily expected of her to turn a blind eye to his public straying, to content herself with the nursery and her embroideries. But he hadn't. He had stayed all those moons when she had been losing herself, losing her grace, sharing her body with strangers. If he had affairs, he was circumspect enough not to flaunt them. As to what hurt her most, his emotional attachment to Aelinor, now she saw even that in an entirely new light: it was a well-known fact only for those who cared enough to remember of how things had used to be – before he wed Naeryn. Since then, he had been guarding his affection faultlessly, had cared about Naeryn enough not to let it show. And the rumours had slowly faded. Even today, he had barely paid any attention to Aelinor, no matter what he felt. He was careful to never be hurtful to Naeryn – and he cared enough to actually take the time to know what would hurt her.

He had never actually tried to force himself upon her or punish her bodily after the last birth, even when she deliberately provoked him into it – but then, she had known all along that he wouldn't, hadn't she? She had thought herself so brave when the reality was, she was just lucky. Not because Maekar was faultless. Just because being casually dismissive of his wife was not one of his faults.

She looked at Daenerys and felt sick. The thought of being pitied by someone like her was too much to bear. "Rise," she snapped. "Rise and wash your face. Then, we'll go to back to the hall and you'll smile and act happy, and be as charming as you know how. And oh, you won't show any pity towards her. In fact, it would be best if you don't look her at all."

She knew how hard the last one would be but well, everything came at a price. She, Maekar, Aelinor, the poor woman in the hall – they had all learned that. Daenerys had been given the luxury of being a woman when it suited her and a petulant child when it did not. Now, the price was exacted.

Daenerys did what she was told, Aelinor applied some paint to her newly scrubbed face, and the three of them headed back to the great hall to face their duty.


	11. Myriah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for each and every review this story got. Thank you, Riana1, for reviewing each and every chapter.

"Go to bed."

The young woman shook her head and Myriah sighed, annoyed. "Whom, exactly, do you think you're helping?" she demanded. "You can see he feels just fine with me, yes? You haven't slept in two days, except for napping in this chair now and then. I say, go and eat something. Have a bath. The only thing worse than having a sick one to tend is to have two of them!"

If there was a weary smile in response, Myriah did not see it. It was almost dark in the bedchamber, the curtains drawn tightly for light hurt his eyes. Since the men had returned, four days ago, candles had been lit only when most needed, and even then very scanty. It was a chamber of shadows and fever, of dreams and delirious ravings, of hastily murmured soothing words and cloths soaked in soothing rose water. Cinnamon and myrtle scented the air, chasing away the smell of sickness and dread. The heavy carpets absorbed all footsteps. They all talked in hushed voices.

"I don't dare," Shiera Seastar said. "What if he wakes up?"

"Right," the Queen agreed. "What if he wakes up?"

Silence. The young woman's weary brain could not get the reason for Myriah suddenly being so concordant.

"Just look at yourself!" the Queen went on. "If he happens to wake up as we talk, you're going to scare him back into oblivion."

Even in the darkness, Shiera's exhaustion was visible. Myriah pressed further. "The maesters say he's going to regain consciousness in a day, two at most. That's when he'll have greatest need of you – and you won't be able to rise from this chair, let alone be of any use."

This was the argument that finally won Shiera over. She rose, stumbling in her hem, and leaned over him to stroke his cheek. He leaned into her caress but didn't open his eyes… eye.

"Rest calmly," Myriah said. "I'll take good care of him."

As the most desired woman at court left, her hair a bird's nest, her eyes no longer arresting, just mismatched, her silks reeking of sweat and sickness, the Queen thought, saddened, that no one would ever know how much Shiera loved him, not even Brynden himself. Sure, everyone knew that they were a couple and no one would raise any doubt as to the passion of their relationship – but passion and being a couple did not mean love. _What a pity he can't see her now_ , Myriah mused. _He'll never have cause to question her feelings._

She soaked a cloth in fresh water and pressed it to Brynden's lips. Differing to the last, he would not abide having water poured in his mouth even as he tossed around in fever, even if his parched lips bled. Not that they would let them bleed, of course. Placing a damp cloth to his mouth always did the trick: he sucked at it and the in precious wetness went. Of course, it was much longer and harder this way.

When he turned his head aside, meaning that he was no longer thirsty, Myriah rose and went to open the windows. Scented air was good but he needed some fresh one, too. She returned to her chair and bathed his face with rose water before taking his hand into hers. They had discovered that certain gestures soothed him, as well as certain presences – Shiera most of all, of course, but also Daeron, Myriah herself, Aerys and Aelinor to a lesser extent. It saddened her to think how few friends he had, even in this treacherous world of theirs. No one would ever forgive him for having this strange stain on his cheek and those ruby red eyes, so he had turned them to his advantage, winning Myriah's appreciation.

He stirred again and she leaned over, murmuring some soothing, wordless sounds and stroking his head. He relaxed a little and she sat back, taking his hand once again. She stared at it, bone-white in the darkness, and remembered the first time she had held a little boy's hand, red eyes wide and disbelieving that the Princess had touched him on her own will. All the times she had grabbed a young man by the hand to lead him somewhere away from his books and reports. _"Come on, Brynden,"_ she would say. _"Will you ever learn not to be so serious?" "I am afraid not, Your Grace,"_ he would reply so very seriously, yet the slightest curve of his lips would show that he was, indeed, pleased of her company and the distraction she forced on him. Her attitude, in turns maternal and flirtatious, seemed to strike the right chord with him – after all, he had barely had the first and he too often saw Shiera aim the later at other men.

She inspected the pale hand. Five fingers, all lines and planes. It looked no different than it had looked a few months ago, a few years ago, yet it was now stained with the blood that had already gained him the nickname _kinslayer_. Praise to the Seven, he was strong enough to not let that torment him. He had done what needed to be done. Daemon Blackfyre's death only angered Myriah, for it was such a senseless loss. The boy had had so many talents. If only he hadn't listened to the wrong people or that mother of his, still seething that Viserys got the throne instead of her, he could have achieved so much. Instead, he had found the grave he deserved in that grass of red. Baelor had confirmed that Daeron's vision had been true. The grass _had_ been red. Myriah shuddered at the memory of the sack of Sunspear, the Toyne rebellion, all those times war had made its black way into their lives and thanked the Seven that it was finally over, that they had come back alive.

A chambermaid came to bring in the bowl of clear soup they requested changed hourly to keep it warm, just in case he woke up. The Queen noticed the fearful look the woman cast at the bed. _He saved you, silly woman_ , she wanted to say. _He saved you, and me, and he saved Westeros from a war that might have raged for years._ Still, she had to admit that the news of Daemon's twins' deaths was deeply unsettling. She could see Brynden's reasoning and she was grateful beyond belief that the children's blood that had been shed was not that of her own grandchildren. And still, the manner of their deaths was chilling. If she mourned for anyone in Daemon's lying, self-advancing clique, it was the children.

Outside, dusk turned to darkness. Myriah sat holding his hand, thinking of the toll that war had exacted on him, thinking of the children and wondering where the rush of the first joy after hearing about the victory, after meeting them at their arrival had gone.

It was now time to go and dress for the evening feast. She was about to go out and send for a master when a small gnarled figure made her way into the chamber in the light of a single candle. She was all shadows and lines – lined face, lined neck, lined old hands – but her eyes were as sharp as ever, her dress and person immaculately clean. Myriah immediately decided against calling a maester – her old wetnurse was one of the few people Brynden had had an immediate rapport with. Her practicality and inability to suffer nonsense resonated finely with Brynden's own and the dark mutterings of doom brought out by her own gift of the second sight found their reflection in the way he believed fate could be read in the depth of water, the dance of flame, the whispering of weirwoods. Ever since he was a little boy, he had been fascinated by the Queen's Witch, as they called Lelia. And her knowledge of the secret herb-lore that could prevent conception, summon an illness or alleviate one, and heighten the prophetic sense of those who had it could only elevate her in the eyes of the man who valued practical knowledge more than anything.

"Go now," Lelia said. "I'll stay with him."

Myriah rose and placed Brynden's hand carefully on the cover. Lelia leaned closer, squinting at his face. "He'll wake up in a few hours," she announced and looked around. "Where's the girl? Don't tell me that she listened to reason and went to have some rest?"

"She did," the Queen said, resisting the urge to boast that she had been the one who had made Shiera listen. It was strange to think that no matter how old one was, they still needed to impress their parents – and Lelia was the closest thing she had had to a mother ever since her own died all those years ago, soon after the Young Dragon's army had been decimated.

In her chambers, she quickly changed and entered the buzz and lively conversations in the great hall. Now that everyone could breathe, the air was full of relief and laughter. Men boasted of their heroics in the battle. Women gasped and gave exclamations at all the right places. Servitors kept running around the tables with plates. Dornish red flowed liberally. And yet looking around at her tablemates on the dais, Myriah could see that they were all but joyful. Daenerys was not present. Daeron kept his expression impassive as always, yet she knew that the devastation tore at him. Ruin was ruin, even after the victory was won. Baelor, still not quite used to hiding his thoughts, looked downright sad. Lyselle's anxiety did not help matters. Myriah's goodaughter barely tasted the plates servants placed in front of them. Myriah could see that the more her pregnancy progressed, the more her fear grew. After Matarys' birth, Lyselle had gone on to conceive two more times, each ending with a child that was perfectly formed for the moons spent in the womb, yet too small to live, so close to the line when it would be developed enough to make it. Rhaegel, the most sensitive out of all of Myriah's children, would not look at anyone, crushed by the misery coming at him from all sides. Aerys had chosen to hide from the aftermath in his world of books and knowledge. Myriah wondered what prophecy he was thinking about now, so distant his expression was. Aelinor was returning the new Volantene's ambassador flirting in full measure, trying to pretend that war and devastation hadn't happened at all. Judging by the looks from the hall, their little game of mutual adoration did not go unnoticed.

"Stop it," Myriah warned in a low voice. Her daughter gave her a look of mock surprise. _What is it that I should stop_ , her eyes asked. Myriah sighed. For all her silver beauty, there was more of Dorne in Aelinor than she was entitled to and it showed, especially now, when Aerys had made it abundantly clear that he had no desire to be a true husband to her. Myriah was not sure how that made her feel. On one hand, she was immensely relieved that the incest Targaryens took for normal would not take place between her own children; on the other, she felt for Aelinor, doomed to spend her life alone, without a man's caress.

Further down the table, little Daeron was saying something about a ship being tossed this way and that, people screaming inside, and a crown floating all over them, unsure on which head to perch, his face very pale. Myriah had learned to recognize the signs that it was one of his dreams he was talking about. A quick look around showed her that Maekar was nowhere to be seen and Naeryn was too engrossed in her own conversation and she sighed in relief. _It's ridiculous_ , she thought, _defending Daeron from his own parents._ Yet she knew all too well what damage a well-meaning parent could wreck.

All of a sudden, she rose. She could no longer abide this false cheerfulness, those forced smiles, this air of coming down to earth after the first ecstasy after the victory. Daeron looked at her and she gave him a quick smile to indicate that she was fine and she'd be back soon. One of the Kingsguard followed her. Myriah did not look to see who it was – it still pained her to know that Gwayne Corbray would never walk two steps behind her as he had for twelve years.

From the high terrace overlooking the city King's Landing looked like a tapestry of fireflies. The stench could not reach as high as the top of Aegon's Hill and Myriah breathed the fresh air in, hungrily. Slowly, her heartbeat calmed down and her head stopped pounding with the echo of the hall. She was leaning against the railing when she realized she wasn't alone.

"You couldn't stand it either?" Maekar asked from his corner of the terrace, showing no surprise at her arrival.

"Not a minute longer," she replied.

"How is he?" he asked. "I am told he'll be on the mend soon."

"That's right," Myriah said, surprised that he'd take care to keep himself informed. Her youngest did not like Brynden a bit and the feeling was mutual. Maybe it was Maekar's sense of duty that drove him about that, as it did in almost all other things. "He's better already."

"I am pleased to hear it."

Was he going to bring up the kinslaying thing? Why should it matter at all? It shouldn't. "Is it true that he killed them himself?" she heard her own voice asking. "Daemon and the boys?"

Maekar shook his head without hesitation, his hair a second moon under the moon. "No, that's a stupid rumour and nothing more. You know there is no love lost between him and me but I swear, there was no way for anyone to say whose arrows it was that ended their lives."

Myriah let out the breath she had been holding and looked at the city, trying to explain to herself why it would have mattered not if Brynden had killed them in person but it mattered so much that he hadn't.

Maekar seemed to read her thoughts, for he said curtly, "You aren't going to give way to female sensitivities now, are you? The truth is still the same, no matter that Daemon is dead. That's why I am not sorry about him, not even now. He would have had us all murdered – you and me, Father, all of us. Even Lyselle's unborn babe. Oh, he would not have ordered the children killed, of course, but he would have condoned it after someone did it for him, eager to curry favour."

"I know," she agreed and it was no mere words.

They looked at each other and for a moment, Myriah felt as close to him as she rarely had, just like she had once when after spending three months in Dorne, he had come back speaking with Dornish accent. It did not last long, though: a moment later, he looked away as he so often did with her.

_Does he know_ , Myriah wondered for a hundredth time. Sometimes she felt that he did, that since the day he was born, he had been aware of her attempt to prevent her last pregnancy and when her bid failed, induce a miscarriage before anyone found out. Had it not been for King Aegon, she _would_ have taken the blasted herb that would have killed her child in the womb. Myriah always took care to remember this fact when she thought of her goodfather's misdeeds. Of course, it was entirely possible that he had informed Maekar of the whole affair. Knowing him, he would have taken great pleasure in letting the boy know. Sometimes, she was desperate to know – but she could never ask.

"Was it as terrible as I think?" she asked.

Maekar didn't look at her. "It was," he said. "It was all that you think, and more." He paused. "It was standing there that was hardest," he said after a while and leaned over to inhale the scent of the jasmine beneath the terrace – and hide his face, as she thought. "Holding out. All that I had, all that I wanted screamed at me to ride forth to the battle, yet I had to wait and keep my men where they were until Baelor smashed the rebels against us."

For a while, Myriah was silent. She could say that he hadn't been sleeping, that what happened still haunted him. It would stay with him for years to come – and she was just as powerless to help him as she had been in that cursed day seventeen years ago when Aegon had him dragged straight from his bed to have him taken to King's Landing.

"So you've won a victory against yourself," she finally said. "Those are the most precious ones, in my opinion."

He looked at her and smiled briefly. "I suppose you're right," he said but he didn't look like he believed it.

_Naeryn'd better come around_ , Myriah thought. _It's her that he needs, not me._ Her patience for her goddaughter's behavior was stretching dangerously thin. As much as she related to Naeryn's feelings, for she'd been there herself, it was now her son and not her husband at the receiving end and that made all the difference.

For a while, they stood there and talked of small things of no meaning before they returned to the torment of the great hall. And when it was finally over, when she was blissfully alone in her bedchamber with her husband, she reached out and held him tight, not saying anything, because she knew that while she did not mourn for Daemon, Daeron did.

 


	12. Baelor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed.

Despite his best efforts, he could no longer tell them apart – they merged into a single face with no definede features at all, a single defeated voice begging forgiveness and unsuccessfully trying to hide the fear that it might not get it, and then the primal relief at hearing that he would keep his head. A moment later, the horror and anger at learning that he'd have to give a hostage to the Crown. Again and again… Even at the battlefield Baelor had not grasped the real size of the damage so clearly. There were so many of those who had taken the path of separation and bloodshed – but they were the Iron Throne's subjects, as well. Baelor and the rest had to live with them.

"I wonder whether Daemon realized how easy it is to burn bridges and how hard – to build them once again," he murmured, so softly that only Maekar would hear him.

"Of course he didn't," his brother replied darkly. "Do you remember him ever thinking this far? He probably thought that once he won, he could buy those who stood against him with a smile. And now we're left to deal with the consequences."

Baelor suspected that Maekar had the right of it. For the last years, Daemon had become overweening enough to believe that he could charm those he had just impoverished… because his generosity to his own supporters relied on the spoils he imagined he would take when he won. Still, Maekar's voice was harsher than what was called for but Baelor couldn't blame him too much. They've been in the throne room for hours listening to one and the same plea with only slightly different wording.

"Just look at them," Maekar went on. "They can't believe they are left with something at all, their heads included. One comes to wonder what they would have done in our place."

"Well, it still would be no concern of ours," Baelor said reasonably.

"Shut up, you two," their father warned in low voice as the next supplicant stepped forward. Of course, Daeron had caught Baelor's meaning just as well as Maekar had: had Daemon won, spoils and pardons would have been decided over their entire family's graves. How could he be so calm and reasonable? Baelor would like to think he, too, would have been such a king under these circumstances but he wasn't the least bit sure.

Baelor sighed. Weariness washed over him like a huge crashing wave. He still hadn't had the time to rest for longer than the two days immediately after their arrival and it had started influencing his perceptions, including his judgment of proper behavior. Maekar was no better. And they were nowhere near done with the parade of contrite rebels.

He recognized the pasty face and that sour mouth under the now not so meticulously trimmed beard even before he heard the voice that had once ordered Aelinor to follow him out of her bedchamber, the huge hands that had bodily carried her out when she refused. To Baelor's ten-year-old mind, the thought of someone other than their parents or her septa laying hand on her had been something unfathomable. He remembered trying to pull her back and one of those same huge hands sending him flat against the railing.

Next to him, Maekar hissed his breath in but a moment later his face became impassive despite the short grinding of his teeth. In this short moment, Baelor realized that his brother had become five-year-old again, that was how much the lord had scared him. Of course, Maekar would never acknowledge this short moment of weakness.

"Well met, my lord," the King said evenly, as if Gormon Peake was a cherished guest instead of a defeated traitor. "It saddens me to see that despite my generosity regarding your previous… lapses you seem to have learned nothing."

Lord Peake's Adam's apple moved. "I was only following His Grace King Aegon's orders," he spat, then seemed to remember what position he was in and went on in a voice that betrayed both fear and helpless anger. "I didn't relish it in the least."

Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that's what you told me twelve years ago," he said. "I decided to believe you then. And then I found you in rebellion, my lord. What should I do with you now?"

All of a sudden, Baelor felt that little monster waking up to life, the monster that he had tried to lull to sleep all his life, since he had first realized just how many opportunities he had to satisfy its savage wishes. His father had forgiven Peake, forgiven all of those who had tried to thwart his accession – and they had been so quick to forget that Daeron had been in position to deprive them of anything had he so wished. Peake, specifically, seemed to have forgotten just how lucky he had been.

"Lord Peake's subsequent transgression erased any pardon you have given him, Your Grace," he said. "So we're back to where we started. King Aegon might have given you an order to assure that my sister was removed from her chamber but I doubt it included you actually laying hands upon her over her resistance," he added and paused. "Both hands. The same you used on me a little later, almost sending me over the railing to my death, I might add."

Now, he looked directly at the Master of Laws. "What was the punishment for raising one's hand against the royal blood, my lord?" he inquired, very careful not to look at Maekar. For some reason, his youngest brother quite liked it when Baelor displayed the family flair for vengeance. _Probably because it doesn't happen all that often_ , he defended himself in his head. However, his defense didn't last too long – he could not deny that he felt a thrill of satisfaction as he saw the lord's expression when the Master of Laws confirmed that he should lose both hands that he had raised against Aelinor. For all Peake's bravery, there were some things that could not fail but instill a primary, wild fear. Later, the lord of Starpike might feel humiliated and shamed of his reaction but right now, even the fact that he had to surrender three of his four children as hostages compared to only one for most of the other rebels could only feel like mercy.

He was quite surprised to find out that Maekar seemed to share his thoughts.

"Now I know I prefer fighting them than looking at their disgusting crawling," his brother muttered as they were finally walking away from the throne room.

Baelor nodded in agreement and made another mark against war: it turned people into creatures that were mindless with fear. What had all those maesters who had praised victorious wars had been thinking? What had they know? _The only people who should write about wars are those who lived them_ , he thought. _But then, those who lived them would probably only want to forget them._

All he wanted was to return to the peace of Dragonstone. As much as he loved Summerhall, the home of his childhood, it was Dragonstone that he felt most happy – his own home, the place he had come into his own, become a man.

_Well, right now I can do with some rest_ , he thought but the notion went out of his head as soon as they neared the wing he currently occupied and he heard Lyselle's screams all the way down.

"What happened?" he asked breathlessly as she shoved his way through the horror-stricken crowd filling the hallway in front of a closed door on the second floor.

"Open the door!" Lyselle screamed in the grasp of hysteria, her voice filled with panicky horror.

Baelor immediately realized what had happened. The damned bolt had stuck or had another malfunction and his wife had found herself in a locked room – something that in the best case scenario gave her nightmares for a few nights and in the worst case scenario freaked her out of her mind. As her so desired pregnancy neared the point she had lost all others but the first two at, her anxiety flared to no end. In this state, everything could get her nervous – and being in a locked chamber most of all. For a moment, he was petrified. Then, his mother's voice broke through his stupor.

"Break the bloody door down!" Myriah yelled at her sons. "Don't just stand there like this."

_She's right._ Lyselle's screams had faded into small whimpers, like a terrified animal. He leaned a shoulder against the door to find it too solid.

"Lyselle," Maekar yelled, standing directly in front of the door. "Step back. We're going to break the door down. Step back. Calm down. We will break the door down," he said again. "You know we can!"

Baelor had no idea whether the words had sunken it or whether his wife, in her panicked state, had even heard them, but her whimpers grew fainter which might mean that she had stepped back. He drew back, let Maekar steady him and kicked the door with all his might, so hard that he would have fallen on his back had it not been for Maekar's iron grip on his arms. A shower of wood rained over him when the door splintered and flew wide.

"Everyone go away," Myriah ordered from behind him. "Nothing happened. It's all fine now."

The crowd dispersed as he was entering the chamber. It was one of those they rarely used. _The almost unfamiliar surroundings must have triggered her panic even more_ , he thought as he was approaching the place where she was leaning against the wall, her face white as sheet. Her fair hair had escaped the hair net, her lips were cracked and bitten. He held her tight and felt her clinging to him. "It's fine now, Lyselle," he said. "No one will lock you up ever again. It was just a stupid latch. Come here, now."

After a while, she calmed down enough to let him take her to her bedchamber where he stayed with her until her handmaidens brought her tea and water to wash her face. Soon, she fell asleep and woke up at dusk with her peace of mind restored, to give him a look of embarrassment. "I am sorry," she murmured.

"Don't be," he said. "It's nothing."

Lyselle looked down. "I don't want to lay you open to ridicule."

"You aren't," he assured her and took her hands in his own. Growing up with a brother like Rhaegel had grown him a thick skin when people gave him odd looks by association.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she confided in a small, scared voice. "I couldn't open the door and I got out of my mind with fear…"

"I know," he sighed and drew her as close as her belly would allow. "It's all right. We got you out."

"Yes," she murmured. "Who was there?"

"My mother," he said. "Maekar. A few others."

"And they all saw?" she asked, her eyes brimming with humiliated tears.

"I'm afraid they did," he admitted, stroking her back. "It doesn't matter. I doubt any of them could survive being locked for twelve years in a single chamber, so their opinion really shouldn't bother you. Only mine matters – and I happen to think you're the strongest person I've known in my life."

It was already past midnight when he managed to soothe her back to sleep and went out in the courtyard. This was not Lyselle's first breakdown but such occurrences were always a hard trial for him. While not mad the way Rhaegel was, sometimes he feared that she'd go too far away, to a place where he couldn't take her back from.

At this hour, the Red Keep was usually quiet. Everyone had either asleep or conducting their business as noiselessly as possible. Baelor took the fresh night air in and sat down on a cool marble bench – only to be startled by a commotion. Running feet, hushed voices. Behind one of the windows, there was suddenly an explosion of light. Baelor shielded his eyes with his hand and brought it down as soon as he heard footsteps approaching him. To his surprise, he found himself face to face with one of his own household knights. "Ser Daryn," he said. "What are you doing here?"

The young knight looked aside, clearly trying to think of an explanation, and then suddenly dropped it all. "It's Aelinor," he said. "She's ill. They sent me to fetch a maester…"

Only now did Baelor realize that the window that had become bright all of a sudden was that of his sister's bedchamber. And in his hurry to get there it didn't occur to him to ask himself why one of his knights would refer to Aelinor by name, let alone be aware of how she was.

His skin crawled even before he entered the chamber. The smell of blood assaulted his nostrils right from the door. Aelinor lay curled on her bed, her nightgown gathered around her waist. Aerys was stuffing a roll of cloth between her legs. For the few moments it took Baelor to cross the chamber, the cloth turned scarlet before his eyes. "What happened?" he asked.

Aelinor's eyes closed. For a terrifying pause in his heartbeat, Baelor thought she had just left this world, so pale she was. Then, he took her hand and felt the slightest echo of a pulse.

His eyes went around the room and this time he saw the old woman cowering in a corner, the bloodied crotchet-hook on the floor next to her. His gorge rose.

"What have you done here?" he asked, unsure whom he was addressing. "Do something, you old witch," he added angrily to the woman. "Staunch the bleeding! Something!"

She was whimpering pitifully, almost paralyzed with fear. "I told her what could happen! I told her!"

A second look around the bedchamber revealed an additional confirmation as to what had transpired: lots of fresh sheets, washcloths, towels, various herbs and potions…

"When did she start bleeding?" he asked, praying for the maesters to come before she bled to death.

Aerys gave him a confused look. "Her handmaiden came to me immediately. It must have been… it must have been…"

"Leave it," Baelor interrupted. "It doesn't matter." He figured that it could not have been more than a few minutes. With a bleeding this heavy, she would have been dead now if it had been longer. "Send for the Grand Maester. And Maekar."

Aerys looked at him and raked a hand through his hair, then rubbed his forehead as if he was trying to collect his thoughts. "Are you sure? If he sees her like this, if he gets to know, he'll kill your man."

Baelor sighed and tried to suppress his anger. It was clear that Aerys had lost his head with fear and guilt – and he should feel guilty! If _he_ lost his head to anger, that might end up deadly for Aelinor. And Maekar's jealous rage wouldn't matter then! "She'll want him near as soon as she wakes up. And if… if she doesn't, he'll never forgive us for not summoning him."

Aerys opened his mouth, closed it, and obediently went to give his orders. Baelor tried to staunch the bleeding with a new sheet and cold water but the blood kept gushing out. Aelinor lay unmoving, like a block of wood. Dark veins showed on her face; her pulse was probably growing fainter, too, but Baelor did not dare remove his hand from the cloth he was pressing against the flow of blood to check.

"I…" Aerys stammered. "I didn't want… I never meant… It never should have happened."

_Right_ , Baelor thought. _It never should have happened and it wouldn't have, have you made some effort. And now you're stuttering that you didn't want it. Of course you didn't! And what of it?_

Two maesters rushed in; as he was making a step back, relieved, Baelor grimly added the last victim of that blasted rebellion to the list, for if the matter of bastards and trueborns had not wrought such destruction upon the kingdom and didn't have the potential to ruin all of them if they were not very careful in the next few years, Aelinor's babe might have been allowed to live.

 


	13. Aelinor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed. Special thanks to Rhiana1 who barely missed a review!

Dawns came and passed. Noons followed one by one. She could tell it by the varying positions of the sunrays stealing through her canopy in the brief moments she opened her eyes, swallowed the broth they fed her and whimpered weakly at having herself picked up so hands could change her sheets. Once or twice, she glimpsed the red stains on them. When it was time to change her nighgown, she was usually unconscious once again. _She's lost too much blood_ , she heard voices whispering and she wanted to snap at them to shut up, for they only drilled further pain in her already burning brain. But she was too weak to find her voice. Maybe she _had_ lost too much blood. A cut, maybe? She couldn't remember what had happened. _Blood of dragons flowing freely_ , little Daeron's voice echoed in her head...

There were times when she could not even lift her eyelids to show that she was awake but she caught some snippets of activity and conversations carried out in hushed – or not so hushed – voices. Old men's voices explaining that she was on the mend and it was a miracle that she hadn't died. Women worrying about finding explanations as to why their lady could accept no one. Maekar and Baelor arguing – now, that was one of the things she often woke up to. Maekar wanted something and Baelor refused.

"I don't know," her eldest brother said over and over again. "I don't know who he is."

"You are a dirty liar." Maekar's voice was as angry as Baelor's was calm. "Both of them who made moon eyes at her are of your household. Whyte was one of them… I cannot remember the other one's name but I'll recognize this scoundrel anywhere!"

A loud sigh. "And you'll do what? Introduce him to your mace?" Baelor's own anger was mounting by the second. "Do you even recognize how precarious our position, _her_ position is? We just fought a war over things like bastardy and rumours! You'd better keep your jealousy in check…"

"Oh, go to the seven hells already!"

"Shut up, both of you!" Lyselle's voice was shaking with fury. "Shut up before I grab both of you by your stupid heads and bump them into one another. You can have this argument elsewhere."

Whether they heeded her or not, Aelinor did not know, for this was the moment she sank back into lovely dark oblivion.

Sometimes, a dark spectre came to chase her in her dreams. She would gasp and shoot up in bed… or try, at least, for all she could truly manage was a low whimper and a movement beneath the coverings. Each time, there were rough or soft hands soothing her, various voices assuring her that it was nothing, that she was fine, that it had been all a dream. She would gulp at the goblet they gave her hungrily and then sink back into her world of nothingness until the dark hunter came back once again. Sometimes, she saw his face, pale skin against pale hair and purple eyes. _You aren't better than I was,_ Daemon mocked _. Is that what your brothers fought for? Is that what I was killed for? You aren't better, Aelinor, you aren't. And I'll have my revenge. Now, you can never be allowed to have a child of your own…_

It was well past twilight when she finally woke up. There were but a few candles in the background and her bed under the canopy was swimming in shadows. Violet eyes met her and the shadows bruising them were deeper than those of night.

"Maekar," she murmured, suddenly unsure that the Seven hadn't just decided to make the world turn upside down.

"Of course it's me." His voice was gruff and… well, defensive. "What? Don't tell me you were expecting Aerys?"

"I wasn't expecting either of you," she breathed, for as different as those two were, this was something they had in common: they both avoided her like the plague.

"Well, I was not planning on staying," he snapped. He was so pale that she could count each of the pox marks on his cheeks.

"What happened?" she murmured. "You look terrible. Are you ill?"

"No, you are." A strange expression crossed his face, unbridled joy that she looked coherent. Now, Aelinor realized that she must have been really close to death for him to show such blatant care. Ever since he left her, he had gone out of his way to show that she wasn't all that special to him. She rarely believed him but it hurt nonetheless.

"What happened?"

Maekar hesitated. "Don't you remember?"

She thought for a moment.

"Don't," he said quickly, clearly regretting his question. "Just sleep. Do you want something? Some water? Something to eat?"

Two tears slowly made their way down her cheeks. "Is it gone?" she asked, barely audibly.

He nodded and then, clearly unable to help himself, asked, "Whose was it? You have to tell me."

 _So you can kill him before you turn your back on me once again,_ she thought. _You would not have me but no one else is allowed to, either!_ In this moment, she glimpsed the full extent of his selfishness and disdained him. She looked aside, hoping that he'd leave.

He brought a goblet to her lips. "I am so happy that you're recovering," he murmured. "After all, I would not want to die just in two years' time."

Tears welled up in her eyes at the sudden memory of this long forgotten childhood belief they had held: when they had been learning their numbers, they had believed that he'd live exactly two years after her death since he had been born on her second nameday. At the time, they did not realize what death meant, of course.

Now, he looked clearly uncomfortable, obviously deciding that he had shown too much care. _He's afraid that I'll think he loves me_ , Aelinor thought fleetingly. Of course, he did and she knew it.

"You now want to take to your heels, don't you?" she asked and despite her faint voice, there was no mistaking the rude tone.

He flushed and looked down, aside, everywhere but her.

"Go on," she invited. "Take to your heels if you want it so much."

She had his measure right: he did leave, murmuring that he'd send her women in immediately. Anyway, Aelinor went back to sleep before they came. This time, there was no Daemon and not even the babe who had been not allowed to live. Just a long, healing sleep. Her young body took what it needed despite her heartbreak.

Next time she woke up, it was to find Lyselle at her bedside, holding her hand. Her goodsister assured her that they had sent the knight to Dragonstone, safely away from Maekar's rage.

"As if he has any right to be enraged," Aelinor said bitingly.

Lyselle only patted her shoulder. Aelinor felt silly. It was not about right and if anyone knew it, it was Lyselle. Lyselle who had watched Aelinor and Maekar play in the courtyard beneath her windows for hours, day after day, when they had only had each other. Lyselle who had spent her entire childhood imprisoned when King Aegon had had no right to do it.

"He'll come tonight," Lyselle said and Aelinor only curled on her side. With Lyselle, there was no need to guard her words or face. Lyselle kept Aelinor's secrets, and Aelinor kept Lyselle's. And in truth, as much as she despised herself for it, she did want Maekar near, for all his selfishness and rejection. Unfortunately, a woman might be well aware of a man's worst traits and love him anyway. And she would make the best with the unwanted joy his presence gave her even when she was at her most vulnerable. Which she was now. For the clearer her mind went, the more horrifying her future looked. From his grave, Daemon would have his revenge on those who had bested him. Daeron's blood was already prevented from flowing in other human's veins, as far as his daughter was concerned. For Aelinor's only chance of having a child and even knowing a man's arms around her ever again was to seduce Aerys. Somehow. She could never risk taking a lover again and once again finding herself one of the very few women on the face on earth which moon tea did not work for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the story is completed, can you believe it? Thanks to all of you who stayed with me till the end. For those who are curious about the few loose ends I left here: maybe I'll write a (hopefully) short sequel if inspirations comes my way. If not – well, you sort of know how it ends up.

**Author's Note:**

> The summary was adapted from a line in another fic of mine, Foreign Queen. Those of you who are interested in Myriah Martell might like a look.


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